


Romulus and Remus

by coquettish_murder_muffin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Besotted Hannibal, Casual Cannibalism, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Hannibal is kind to animals, Happy Ending, Jealous Will, Loosely follows Hannibal Rising, Love Confessions, M/M, Murder Brothers, Orphanage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reminiscing, Rough Sex, Separation Anxiety, Sleeping Together, Time Skips, mute Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-10-27 23:38:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10819146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coquettish_murder_muffin/pseuds/coquettish_murder_muffin
Summary: Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, two orphaned and deeply misunderstood children, bond together and become like brothers. It's disastrous.





	1. Chapter 1

For as long as he could remember, this was his home.

But it was not _home._

It was just a place.

The orphanage once stood as an immense, proud castle, built by the warlord Hannibal the Grim, but it had turned grey with the ashen skies and the rain and the sad people it housed. It fell away in parts during the war, and was hastily repaired. It frowned like the children trapped within its walls. When water poured down the impressive windows, it was easy to imagine the castle was crying for what had been lost, and what it had been reduced to. He heard cries often enough, day and night. It was a miserable place, but he did have food to eat, and he did have his own bed. He couldn’t remember if he had that before. He couldn’t remember much at all, other than the blood and the screams. And even that was in black and white.

Life had always been grey for Will Graham.

As grey as his eyes, permanently void, but all-seeing.

He watched the caretakers, some little more than boys themselves. Observed how they mistreated the children and took great pleasure in it, with their hideously pale faces and ugly yellowed teeth, like hungry wolves cornering little lambs. Children were beaten, never to death, but enough to bruise the body and the soul. But the mind, that was game. It was great fun for the wolves, who usually got away with it, hardly ever answering to the Headmaster, because the Headmaster was a drunk who intervened only when it was absolutely necessary. Otherwise, he preferred to look away. Will didn’t. He was in the habit of seeing, always seeing, whether he wanted to or not.

Being eight, he was small and fast. He escaped the worst of the abuse easily; he climbed trees on the estate, and would laugh loudly when the older boys broke the branches and landed hard on their backs, screeching with anger when he couldn’t be reached. Rocks and sticks were thrown, always missing him, but he would catch them and throw them back, taunting them to give it another attempt. It was very satisfying, hearing the _whump_ of them falling in a heap, or the _crack_ as something hit their skull. For a few hours a day, the bullies were preoccupied with Will, and the other children were left in relative peace.

There were other things he noticed, which piqued his interest and got him into trouble.

He liked to watch, for example, the older boys that slipped away to the darkest corners of the castle. How they brushed against one another through their clothes, heated but clumsy, completely without practice or a proper clue of what to do. The kisses were just as sloppy, no matter how many times they did it, and it was hilarious. But most interesting was when they peeled off their clothes, and touched privately, emitting ridiculous noises that made Will squint and wrinkle his nose, tongue peeking out between his lips with distaste. He had an idea of how sex worked. He was not blind to the animals. But with people it looked messy and confusing, overall quite embarrassing. On one of these occasions, he couldn’t help but burst into laughter, and harder as the two boys fumbled with their pants and blushed in equal parts embarrassment and fury.

This was how he was chased out of the castle and far across the fields. He was running with all his might for the dock and the black lake with a particularly large boy, almost a man, screaming after him.

His feet hit the wood with force and he pushed off the end, diving into the water. He barely noticed the other child, who nearly fell in from the force of Will whooshing past. When he resurfaced, spitting and choking and smiling, he had a few seconds to take in the raised eyebrow of the other child and the torn bits of bread in his hands. And then Will heard the hissing behind him. Directly in his ear, and in a panic he flailed his arms to get away from the swan that would waste no time in striking him for being too close to its fluffy babies, whom he could hear chirping frantically in the waves.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the child with the bread tossing the last pieces far away, and the hissing retreated as the swans followed.

Will grabbed the edge of the dock and tried to heave himself out of the water, but cried out when boots crunched down on his fingers and held him in place.

“You little _shit—_ ”

A foot struck out between the aggressor’s legs and knocked them out from under him, and Will’s fingers were freed.

While the bully tried to catch his breath, the other child yanked Will out of the water by his dripping shirt and set him down, calm. Knowing the bully would be standing again in just moments, Will grabbed the child’s hand and pulled it after him. He was running as soon as his toes hit the ground. “Come on _come on!_ ”

It became clear that the bully wasn’t following, his pride too wounded to give chase, but Will didn’t stop until he’d reached the far stables. While he bent over his knees and gasped for air with stinging lungs and a wet back, the other child hadn’t even broken a sweat. Will felt his fingers sting, the adrenaline waning, and he grit his teeth and rubbed them gingerly.

He was hardly prepared for the quiet kindness of hands taking his, spreading his fingers to examine each one.

Will glanced at the child’s face, finally taking him in, and concluded that he was slightly older. He saw, too, the proud high cheekbones and the mottled bruise marring one of them, and did not have to guess the cause. His hair was cropped short, a light brown streaked with blond when the sun hit it just right. Compared to his own unkempt dark mop of curls, it was almost clean. But he was as dirty as the rest of them, despite the serious, very grown-up expression on his face. Will might have laughed at him, just a little, if he hadn’t caught sight of the blood-colored eyes, and he remembered who this was.

This boy was fiercely and famously protective of the little ones, and Will had fallen into that category. Will had only caught glimpses of him before, never given real reason to approach, and he had always been both intimidated and secretly in awe of him. He fought valiantly. On occasion, the boy would bite, leaving wounds that risked serious infection and needed stitches. No matter how battered he was in the end, he always left his opponent wailing. The bullies had stopped attacking him in groups the year before, too afraid to risk it even in the safety of numbers. Once, Will had giggled with the other smaller children, watching how the older boys cowered in fear across the dinner table when the wild child bared his sharp teeth in a smile.

He was mute, another orphan of the war, but he was traumatized; screaming so loud at night it jerked Will out of his own shapeless nightmares. He tore the pillows into feathery messes with his teeth and kicked the adults who tried in vain to shake him awake. They strapped him down with belts or took him away until morning. His highborn family had lived in the castle, before the war, before it was reclaimed as an orphanage. Will heard the sarcastic jabs in the halls, _Little Master_ and _Count_ , and imagined it must have hurt. The boy was as good as feral, now, his blue blood completely useless here. His straight back and good table manners didn’t fool Will. He was a hellraiser. They were just alike.

But it was admittedly hard to connect the crazed behavior to the gentled child in front of him now.

“Hannibal Lecter,” Will said, watching how he tensed at the mention of his name. He didn’t like being well-known, not if it meant ridicule. But Will wasn’t going to tease him. “Thank you,” he added quickly, wringing his aching hands together when Hannibal released him with a curt nod.

He started walking away and strangely, Will couldn’t bear it. He hurried after him, struggling to keep up with his shorter legs, but managing to reach his side. “I’m Will Graham,” he said with a hint of excitement in his voice, entirely unashamed of it, and his face fell when Hannibal outright ignored him.

“Who hit you?” he asked bluntly, hoping to gain his attention.

Hannibal gave him a cold look.

 _Does it matter?_ he might have said.

Will was thrilled, his limbs tingling with excitement. Despite the deadness of his eyes, he could read Hannibal like a book. He placed his hands behind his back and shrugged his shoulders, biting down on his big smile. “You’re right, it’s hardly important now.”

If Hannibal was impressed, he kept it to himself.

Before Will knew it, he had glued himself to Hannibal’s side.

Only from a distance, for the first couple of weeks. He tagged along and sat apart from him, but always within sight and earshot. He couldn’t explain this silly fascination, but it was intense. It was different from observing the rest of the children, or the grownups. He felt the possibility of a friend, someone worth his time. Worthless in the eyes of others, but hiding a special fire that only Will could appreciate. He wanted to hold it close, to feel its warmth on his face. A shining light in the dark of the cold, dusty castle.

Hannibal could hardly be called shining as it was, but he had the capability of burning bright. A diamond in the rough. No—he was a diamond before. He crumbled after, covered himself in dirt. Hid himself. Will wondered if he could bring the precious stone back out.

He lost interest in teasing the older boys, and became Hannibal’s shadow.

He took his meals close to him, avoided the rarity of outside games in order to watch Hannibal, and followed him on his walks. With enough insistence, Will took a bed close to Hannibal’s own, despite the age difference. It scared him at first, with the sudden thrashing in the night and the rough yelling so close to his ears.

He took the opportunity to watch. He remained half-hidden in his blankets, peeking out with only his eyes glittering in the dark. And he felt the searing loss like it was his own. After a while, he started to sob whenever it happened, and he wasn’t crying for himself. The adults would collect them both, placing them together in a small locked room. Not speaking, the boys would curl up against opposite walls and fall asleep in companionable silence. Sometimes Hannibal insisted on giving Will his blanket. Will learned not to reject the offer, shrinking under the dark maroon gaze.

Will walked down one of the long corridors in search of him one evening. He found him pressed against the wall, holding off one of the several opportunistic vultures, a trusted caretaker and older man. Watching, Will recalled recently overhearing one of the disgusting claims, _The advantage of beating a mute is he can't tell on you._

When the man snaked his hand between Hannibal’s thighs, Will’s vision tinted red. He broke into a run. Hannibal thrust his head forward and for a wild moment, Will thought he was kissing the man, but blood was spurting from their mouths and the man was screaming in pain. Will barreled down the hall and slammed into him, pushing him to the floor, and started pummeling him.  

Hannibal had allowed it, watching with a hint of hunger, but he ultimately pulled Will, thrashing, off the man. The boys left him writhing on the ground, reaching helplessly for his purpling face and his bleeding lips. He didn’t tell the Headmaster what happened, instead choosing to leave and live with the fact that he would have scars, and his tongue intact.   

Hannibal and Will were inseparable after the incident.

Eventually, the adults stopped tugging them apart from the single bed, because Hannibal screamed less on the nights that Will tucked himself close.

Hannibal didn’t speak, but he didn’t have to. He told Will what he was thinking with his eyes, and with Will’s outstanding empathy, he understood. It was almost telepathic, the two holding conversations and communicating entirely with only glances and smiles or frowns. Tells, like the curl of Hannibal’s lip whenever he was displeased. Will memorized each twitch and what it meant. He imagined Hannibal’s voice in his head, how it might sound. It sounded alarmingly like Will.

Hannibal was his opposite, and the reflection in the mirror.

This was what having a brother felt like, Will thought.

The day Robert Lecter came to collect his nephew, to take him home, away from Will— he felt like he might die.

He found out from the other boys, almost too late. They told him with pleased grins, delighting in Will’s horror. He pushed his way into the Headmaster’s private office, the room that once belonged to Hannibal’s mother. He ignored the hands tugging his clothes, wriggling free, narrowing in on the only thing that mattered. Hannibal was growling like an animal and struggling against a man trying to hold him down, clearly resisting, while the Headmaster looked on and his Uncle Robert stood aside, and seemed at a loss.

“Will,” Hannibal rasped, his voice rough from disuse.

Will crashed into Hannibal, wrapping his arms around his waist, and locked his fingers. The growling stopped, and Will was held with the same insistent tightness. The two boys breathed heavily, each heaving from their own battle, while the adults stepped away to exchange looks. It took a while for them to recover from the mute boy finally speaking.  

Reluctantly, the Headmaster explained the odd friendship. It had started innocently enough, but turned into _an unhealthy fixation_ , he said with a judgmental sniff.

Robert Lecter watched his nephew, observing the change in him.

Mischa was still missing, her fate unknown, and Robert had little faith she would be found. Like many children, she had disappeared without a trace. He hadn’t expected to find Hannibal alive, but here he was. Damaged, but alive. He was no longer baring his teeth or clawing at whoever dared to reach for him. He held to the other boy like one might cling to a brother.

Robert decided he would take them both to France, for Hannibal’s sake. It might make the transition easier, and he had plenty of room for one more child.

The Headmaster changed his tune when more money was offered, agreeing cheerfully.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue from Hannibal Rising was used, mostly for the doctor's speech.

Upon their arrival, the keepers of the house were waiting like dolls, neatly lined in the driveway to meet them. The French country house was beautiful, not as large as the castle had been, but welcoming and warm. It was sitting proud on the green hills, cast in a pinkish light from the evening skies, foggy from a light rain. Will could see himself here, rolling in the grass with a full stomach, soaking up the sun and disappearing like a ghost in the trees, free to roam the grounds. He hadn’t considered the inside of the house, but he knew he would have little interest, no matter how extravagant it might be. Stepping out of the car, Will clung to Hannibal’s side, his nerves getting the better of him as Robert Lecter patted their backs and urged them to approach the house, and the eager staff.  

Will brightened at the sight of a large black mastiff, her heavy tail thumping the ground as their eyes met. He hadn’t known many dogs, only the strays that had wandered near the orphanage, and those were always skittish and bad-tempered. He had always been fascinated, feeding them from a distance and hoping to gain their trust. He never did. But this dog was happy to see him. He would have lunged for her, but that would require releasing Hannibal’s arm. He held fast.

“This is my nephew, Hannibal,” Count Lecter said, placing one hand on each boy’s shoulder. “And this is Will Graham. He will be treated with the same respect. We’re glad to have him.” He proceeded to introduce the maids, the cook, and a few spare men who were in charge of fixing things.  

“And Mischa?” another woman asked, earning Will’s full attention.

She was strange, with her long black hair and her pleasingly symmetrical face. Her clothes were traditional, but from someplace else. She was a strong woman, her hands clasped together but gentle, her head held high and long neck exposed to the elements, but she was confident. She was beautiful, Will thought, strangely taken, but something like jealousy twitched in his gut when he saw Hannibal staring openly.

Robert Lecter shook his head at the question, nothing more, and introduced her as his wife; Lady Murasaki.

Beside her stood a young girl with a prideful look, but with mischief in her dark eyes. She was Chiyoh, Lady Murasaki’s attendant, and she took great interest in the boys, though she tried to hide it at first.

Hannibal’s room was splendidly decorated, filled with nice things, but it had little effect on both of the boys. The reaction disappointed the staff, and Count Lecter most of all, but no one commented on it. There were no whispers, but sad smiles were shared and Will understood it for what it was, despite not knowing of such a thing before. It was sympathy, well-meaning and genuine.

Aside from Chiyoh’s lingering, they were left alone. Will separated himself from Hannibal only to bathe and even so, he purposefully asked for his help in order to stay close. He shrugged off Chiyoh’s attempts to tend to him, preferring Hannibal’s hands to her unfamiliar ones. If his behavior offended her, she didn’t show it. She didn’t smile or pity them, but watched with distant curiosity.  

Will stared at the singular bed, feeling relief, but he knew another would soon arrive. Not that he would sleep in it.

“Does he speak?” Chiyoh asked him, and Will said no. He waited for more questions, but Chiyoh politely excused herself.

He settled into this new life with surprising ease, as if shrugging on an old coat, though the gritty orphanage was all he had known. He should have been afraid, but he found no reason to distrust the staff and only saw kindness in their hearts. He made himself at home, blind to the fact that he was, technically, a guest whose stay was currently undetermined.  

Hannibal was more tentative, but followed his example.

Chiyoh did not play with them much, as she was hardly allowed in the first place, but she did keep a close eye. If only to report back to Lady Murasaki, she always monitored them. Her fondness for them grew, as theirs did for her, in mutual silence. She eventually referred to them simply as _the cubs_ , amused with their attachment to the other, and that each time Will got into trouble Hannibal quietly took some of the blame, despite having nothing to do with his schemes. But he did allow it, curious to see what Will would do, and according to his stern Uncle Robert that made Hannibal just as guilty. Chiyoh, too, would watch from afar to observe Will’s bold nature. But she was never caught, and they never told, though they knew she was there.

When the family learned of Hannibal’s nightmares, a doctor was called to the house.

Will had comforted him, best that he could, but eventually the cries were too loud for them to hide. During a particularly intense episode, Count Lecter and Lady Murasaki had come running. Will was swiftly pushed aside. The Count held Hannibal down on the bed, while Murasaki pinched his nose until he opened his mouth, and she slipped a belt between his teeth for him to bite. She had worried for his tongue, and rightly so, because blood was running down his chin in thin lines. With his head cradled against her chest and her hands brushing through his hair, Hannibal had calmed, and Will felt horribly nauseous. It should have been him holding Hannibal. Why did Lady Murasaki soothe him best? Had he done something wrong?

He decided that she was motherly, that the warmth of a mother would surely appease any child, and the thought was enough to settle the boiling in his stomach.

After the doctor’s session, Count Lecter and Lady Murasaki spoke with him in private. Will and Hannibal pressed against the door to listen. Chiyoh waited behind them, having ignored her instructions to whisk them away.

“What do you say?” The Count inquired, and Will knew that tone of voice. He would be wringing his hands, worry etched into the lines of his face.

“I tried to ask about Mischa,” the doctor said, clearing his throat. “But he closed himself to me. May I be frank?”

“Please,” Murasaki said.

“He is perfectly sound of mind and body. I found scars on his scalp, but no hint of a depressed fracture. But I would guess the hemispheres of his brain may be acting independently, as they do in some cases of head trauma, when communication between the hemispheres is compromised. He follows several trains of thought at once, without distraction from any, and one of the trains is always for his own amusement.”

There was a pause.

“The scar on his neck is the mark of a chain frozen to the skin. I have seen others like it, just after the war when the camps were opened. He refuses to speak of his sister. I think he knows what happened to her, whether he realizes it or not, and so here is my advice; the mind remembers only what it can afford to remember. He will remember when he can handle it. I would not push him. You run the risk of losing him forever if you do.”

“What about the nightmares?”

“You must be patient. I can prescribe—”

“No, thank you,” Lady Murasaki said at once.

Will thought about the conversation often, itching to know more, but he never spoke of it to Hannibal. It didn’t matter to him as it did to Robert and his wife. Will remembered nothing of his own past, and saw nothing wrong in not knowing. It had clearly been awful. But he saw change in his friend, a mild irritation with himself, and he knew that Hannibal wished to remember, but couldn’t.

Glad for it, Will avoided the subject.

He went with him to his lessons, finding some interest in the tutors, but he hated the private lessons with Lady Murasaki herself.

He hated how Hannibal’s eyes grew wide, how he paid attention to what she had to share, when before he blew his breath at the teachers and laughed with Will as they frowned, or flushed when they found that they had been outwitted by children, one of them a mute.

Will hated that Hannibal was charming.

Will hated how the feral glint in his eyes had tempered, hidden itself behind that false charm. Will hated that Hannibal frowned at dirtiness, always fussing over Will to make him presentable, and wrinkling his nose at uncouth behavior.

Will hated that Lady Murasaki smiled most in Hannibal’s presence. She was happier with him than with her husband. She thought she had tamed him, but Will delighted in the secret knowledge that she never would. Will could _see_ him, with his teeth bared and blood in his mouth, his eyes red with hunger. He was no gentleman, he was a growing cub, like Will, wild and dangerous to touch. Lady Murasaki would never know him, not as Will knew him.  

He wished the thought comforted him more. Hannibal always returned to him, and for that he was grateful, but the seed had been planted:

He didn’t need Will anymore.

Will thought so, and tangled in their usual nightly embrace, he said as much.

Hannibal stared at him as though he’d grown a second head.

Feeling foolish, Will hid his face in the pillow, away from him, and suffered an immediate rush of cold air because of it. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen how you are with her, how you look at her, like she’s your guardian angel. Like she’s...” _Beautiful_ , he almost said. But she was, and of course Hannibal would think so. It was the truth.

“You don’t need me,” Will said, hearing his own voice break with his hurt.

He was too upset to push him away, his resolve crumbling when he was pulled tight against Hannibal’s chest. He allowed himself to cry quietly as fingers stroked his cheek, brushing over the tears as they came. He felt a mouth press kisses to his curls, until he had stopped weeping, and still warmth enveloped him as he was held close. It was reassuring on its own, but when he looked over his shoulder and saw the affection in Hannibal’s eyes, reserved only for Will, he thought himself ridiculous for doubting him.

“I’m sorry,” Will said, rolling over to bury his face in Hannibal’s neck. He slept soundly.

He stopped attending Lady Murasaki’s lessons, to avoid the risk of growing resentful, and allowed Hannibal to visit her alone.

Instead, Will learned to climb the highest of trees with Chiyoh, and he pestered the cook and learned to gut the fishes he brought home. Robert Lecter was exhausted these days, complexion pale, and he spent most of his time in his old studio. Will liked to watch him paint. He shook his head when the Count offered him the brushes, but enjoyed his visits nevertheless. The Count needed the company.

Will needed it too. Hannibal’s lessons with Lady Murasaki seemed to run longer and longer.

Robert Lecter greatly resembled his nephew, and it was one of the many reasons Will liked to be near him. He was also very nice. On occasion he was conspiratorial, winking at Will and promising not to repeat the bad words Will said. He confessed silly lies that made Will choke with laughter. The Count was relieved to have a connection with at least one of the boys, deeply disappointed with his inability to bond with Hannibal. He shared the studio with his nephew, but they did not paint together, or discuss their artistic differences.

Robert Lecter was very sad. Will alternated between distancing himself for his own mental health, and visiting him to lift his spirits.

Will played often with the black mastiff, though she was old and tired easily, quite like the Count. She was still a good companion, sitting with him in the sun, accompanying him on the days he went down to the creek. Robert Lecter promised to bring home a proper dog for Will, once the guard dog passed. It was too dangerous for a puppy to live with a temperamental animal of her size, he reasoned, and Will nodded in agreement. He would wait.

His own puppy would have been nice, on the night he laid awake waiting for Hannibal to fill the empty space in the bed. He never came. Will waited until sunrise before swinging his feet out from under the blankets, washing himself and dressing quickly. Perhaps something horrible had happened. He should have run from his room the moment he noticed Hannibal was missing. He should have banged on the Count’s door and begged him to start a search.

Knowing the adults would be at breakfast, Will burst into the dining room and nearly lost himself when he saw Hannibal sitting at the table. He was buttering a slice of bread, not a single hair out of place, and looking for all the world like he’d gotten a good night’s sleep. Hannibal met his eyes, unreadable save for the flicker of worry. Will couldn’t place it.

Will quietly took his seat.

“Hannibal would like to attend school,” Lady Murasaki began conversationally, after a few moments had passed.

Will considered vomiting onto his full plate of delicious food. He started trembling.

Hannibal wanted to leave.

Hannibal wanted to leave _him._

“Oh?” The Count cleared his throat, setting down his coffee to listen.

“It’s important that I socialize with children my own age.”

No one spoke.

Will found himself gaping at Hannibal.

Robert Lecter had spilled his drink and was staring as well. The attending staff were shocked, also.

Lady Murasaki smiled sweetly, oozing with pride, and Will briefly imagined leaping across the table to strangle her throat. His fingers tightened around the knife in his hand, shaking uncontrollably.

Will dropped out of his chair, plate clattering to the floor in his haste, and ran from the room.

Hannibal’s accented voice had flowed perfectly, without interruption. He apparently spoke regularly, but never in front of Will. Just _her._

Will crumpled to the floor in his bedroom, hugging his knees. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood and he swallowed it, sucking on the wound to keep from weeping as someone else entered the room and crept toward him on light toes.  

“It isn’t fair!” Will said, shoving him aside, his eyes squeezed shut. “I hate you!” he yelled, throwing his fists and crying out when they were caught. _I hate you I hate you I hate you!_

“Will,” Hannibal said, fighting him and trying to hold him down, but he sounded sad. “You’ll go to school, too.”

“No! I don’t care about that! Why didn’t you _talk_ to me? _Why did you talk to her? Why her? Why not me?_ ”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Hannibal snapped, and Will stilled immediately, his face frozen. Hannibal’s patience had always been never-ending with him, but not today.

Things were changing too fast.

Sensing the deep pain he had caused, Hannibal gathered Will in his arms and spoke softly to him. “I never had to with you. You understood me without speaking, and I didn’t want to lose that.”

“You know I can’t turn it off,” Will hiccupped. “I understand you. _I do_. It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“I know, forgive me.”

Will tensed as another person entered the room, but sagged when he identified Chiyoh with a quick glance.

She knelt. Before she could refuse, Will threw his arms around them both. Hannibal huffed his amusement, while Chiyoh bore it with a straight face.

“Where were you yesterday?”

“With Chiyoh.”

“Oh,” Will said, and cried some more, relieved but still confused.  

Will agreed to attend school and it was utterly miserable, with loud children who were nothing like him, and teachers who spoke to him as though he was stupid, no matter how well he performed. It wasn’t like the orphanage, but it was close enough that it made him sick. He was happy to be home. He spent his free time with Hannibal always, once again sitting in on the lessons Lady Murasaki taught him, and by extension, Will. Hannibal never left him at night, and Will’s childish jealousy dwindled. He enjoyed that Hannibal spoke to him, but it changed very little. They understood each other painfully well.

On rainy evenings, he joined Hannibal and Chiyoh in a game. They burned incense and bark, and though Will was terrible at it, he never tired of watching Hannibal identify each scent. Outraged with her own failure, Chiyoh once dumped them all into the burning fire, intending to end it. Hannibal named all of them by smell alone, and the three children burst into laughter.

Lady Murasaki watched them when she had the time, seeming fond.

The Count fell ill throughout the years, and Will didn’t see much of him anymore. He tried to visit, but the man was usually resting, or unfit for company.

Hannibal was accepted into medical school at an impressively young age. Will was at risk of losing him, again. He carried the knowledge with him in silence, refusing to voice his concerns. He also refused to face the reality of the situation; they must part ways eventually, if only for a little while. The night before Hannibal was to finally leave, Will pressed against the wall at the bottom of the stairs leading to the attic. He listened, sorting out Hannibal’s voice from Lady Murasaki’s.

“But I love you, my lady.”

“You don’t,” Lady Murasaki sighed in response, with a sad smile Will did not see.   

Had Will not left in a hurry, he would have heard her add, “Those are empty, manipulative words, Hannibal. It is not me you love.”

Will waited in bed, and Hannibal joined him not long after. Surely this would never change, at least?

“I don’t want you to leave,” Will said calmly. He would not cry. He refused to cry. He was not a child anymore.

“I’ll visit you,” Hannibal assured him. “And I will teach you what I learn. Why don’t you learn something new on your own? You can teach me then, too.”  

Will didn’t know how to say goodbye, so he didn’t. He memorized Hannibal’s smell and the feel of him, until his eyes finally closed on their own. He fell asleep to the sensation of fingers stroking through his curls, the vibrations of Hannibal’s throat, and the sound of a German lullaby sung sweet in his ear. He would never forget it, nor would he forget how Hannibal occasionally trembled against him, though Will could detect no tears.

The next morning, Hannibal said his goodbyes to his uncle privately because the man was bedridden.

In the driveway, the staff sent him on his way with encouraging words, especially the cook, whose eyes were brimming with fat tears. Will might have laughed, but the occasion was not a happy one, not to him. It was horrible. Lady Murasaki bent to kiss Hannibal’s head, and Chiyoh kissed both of his cheeks with surprising force. Will stood in front of him, lost, but immediately melted into the hug and squeezed him tight.

Will recalled how they had spit and hissed as children, whenever they were parted.

Hannibal placed a hand on the back of his neck and breathed in his ear, “I will miss you terribly.”

Will chewed on his tongue, still refusing to cry. “I could come with you?”

No promises were made, but with time, it might be possible.

Will did not adjust, and wrote a letter as soon as he had left. He continued writing, daily, for the next several weeks as he locked himself away in his room and read Hannibal’s books, scanning through Hannibal’s sketches. Most were of Will, or Chiyoh among fireflies, and other various places and faces that Will didn’t recognize. Will tore out the drawings of Lady Murasaki and burned them for warmth at night. He stared wistfully at the ones of a smiling baby, wondering if it was Mischa. Only some of Will’s letters made it into an envelope, and even less were sent. Too many felt pitiful. He asked Chiyoh for her company at night, but it wasn’t the same. It was wrong. She nodded in understanding, brushing a hand through his hair, and left him to his own devices.

He read Hannibal’s letters like a prayer, whenever he woke and each night before he slept.

Hannibal finally came home for Robert Lecter’s funeral. He was several days late. It had only been a handful of months since his departure.

Will was sleeping soundly, exhausted from mourning, and at first he did not notice the breeze filtering through an open door. A slightly foreign but familiar smell reached his nose, and he blinked himself awake in the harsh sunlight that poured across the bed. Beside him, the springs creaked from the weight of another, and he felt warmth against his back and his heart soared as he realized this was no dream, this was real, and Hannibal was here. 

“Hello, Will.”

Will faced him with a sleepy smile which fell apart at the sight of him.

Hannibal was taller now, longer, broad in the chest, and his voice had deepened. His hair was different, darker from being kept indoors. But his eyes were the same predatory red, with a honed intelligence and containing new tricks. Hannibal leaned over him on his elbow, pressed into the pillow beside Will’s head, and he was smiling good-naturedly and with obvious pleasure. If it were possible, his teeth seemed sharper, deadly now. Will felt himself flush.

Having no words to express himself, Will lurched up from the mattress and kissed him on the mouth.

When he pulled away, Hannibal’s shocked expression made his stomach turn. But the surprise faded, suddenly veiled with delight, and without comment Hannibal kissed his blushing cheek. He insisted that Will dress and join him for breakfast outside. It was a beautiful morning, he said, and it would be incredibly rude to keep Lady Murasaki waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch.


	3. Chapter 3

It was spring, and Hannibal was home for a short while.

Determined not to waste their time together, Will accompanied him everywhere. Lady Murasaki used this approach, also. It couldn’t be helped. Will’s possessiveness faded into a dull ache of reluctant acceptance. He still suffered the occasional irritated twitch, but had stopped acting on such childish feelings of jealousy. Lady Murasaki was all he had in Hannibal’s absence, with the Count dead and Chiyoh long ago sent away to Japan, to her betrothed…Will couldn’t afford to hate her, though he was certainly resentful to a degree. It showed, and she did not try to comfort him. Her attention had always belonged most to Hannibal, and so it remained.

With a basket hung over his arm, Will followed them into the marketplace, dragging his feet but not saying a word against the unwanted company. He watched them talk, how Lady Murasaki touched him, and the look of triumph that crossed Hannibal’s face whenever she did. Knowing that it would seem like devotion to anyone else, Will was reassured. Hannibal thought Lady Murasaki a fun little game. For his amusement, but nothing more. Hannibal never looked at him that way. No, Hannibal’s face was always open and blind with affection whenever it came to Will. Whether he knew it or not. Will smiled to himself, satisfied.

He wrinkled his nose at the butcher, standing across from the fruits and vegetables. The smelly, large man was loudly chopping and dividing organs and plucking feathers from a goose, wiping his face with bloodied hands and causing several of the feathers to stick to his mouth. He caught Will staring, and fixed him with a glare. The butcher asked him what he was looking at, his voice dripping with venom and greatly affected by alcohol so early in the day. Will turned around, but Hannibal had heard and was now assessing the situation. His eyes drifted from the butcher to Will, questioning.

“It’s nothing,” Will said, ignoring how he pressed without speaking.

The butcher snorted with indifference but his eyes stuck on Lady Murasaki, and widened.

“Hey, Japonaise!”

Some of the customers milling about raised their heads, and one of the vendors scowled. Lady Murasaki, her own head held high, gave the butcher an appraising look before she continued sorting through the vegetables in silence. She decided he wasn’t worth the effort.

“Japonaise! Tell me, is it true that your pussy runs crossways?”

“Paul,” said a man beside him. His brother, a more trim and delightful gentleman in comparison.

“What, aren’t you curious?”

Lady Murasaki held her breath, searching for patience, and did not respond. Hannibal, however, was seething and she grasped his arm quite suddenly, sensing his annoyance. Watching them exchange conflicting looks, Will shrugged the basket down to his hand, and waited.

The butcher, Paul, laughed at his brother’s red face. “I'll tell you, I had one in Marseilles, once, that could take your _entire_ —” He broke off, stunned, as a basket was flung against the side of his head. It was filled with items, giving it a fair weight. He stumbled, nearly tripping over the vegetables that scattered the floor, and with a cry he surged forward, seeking revenge. A clenched fist connected hard with Will’s cheek, although he honestly should have seen it coming. He had been too pleased with himself, and the sight of the man lumbering toward him had rooted him to the ground, rethinking his actions.

He expected death or serious injury, the fat man leaned over him with his hands drawn back, and Will shut his eyes tight to better accept his fate. But the butcher suddenly disappeared. Will pushed himself to sit, cheek stinging. Hannibal’s hands were tight around the butcher’s throat, choking him, and Paul’s eyes bugged out of his head while his brother tried to join the scuffle. Lady Murasaki halted him with a knife against his throat, snatched from the butcher’s stand. All four of them stiffened at the sound of whistles blown, and complied with the uniformed gendarmes that descended upon the scene and pulled them apart. Will erupted into poorly timed laughter as one officer tripped, falling victim to a stray onion.

Will thought Hannibal might kill the butcher anyway, because it took much longer to convince him than with the others. Hannibal considered it, his true intentions broadcasting loud and clear to Will on his otherwise stone-cold face, but ultimately he followed the order to let go. The butcher gasped helplessly for air, the blood vessels in his eyes burst and his voice throaty as he promised to murder them all. 

“Sorry,” Will said later, waiting in the police station. He was seated between Hannibal and Lady Murasaki like a child who had been caught skipping school. He felt himself shrink under the gaze of the upset commandant who scolded him for his reckless behavior. His bruised cheek smarted, but nothing was broken, and he had all his teeth.  

They let him go with a stern warning, explaining that Paul Momund wasn’t well-liked and that they would turn their heads this time, but not the next. Hannibal was given a similar lecture by an inspector, a longer version that took him away for some time and made Will nervous. And Lady Murasaki was apologized to, of course, profusely. As they left, Will caught the inspector’s eyes following Hannibal. It took Will a moment to realize; the inspector knew, but he did not know what he knew. He could _see_ him, as Will could.

Will felt unsettled.

“Why did you do that?” Hannibal asked him, aside. He didn’t adopt a specific tone, he was only curious.

“It was rude.”

Hannibal agreed with him, but was deep in thought for the next few minutes, and unreachable.  

Will hadn’t done it for Lady Murasaki. He hadn’t considered the consequences, or who he was fighting for, before he tossed the full basket. It just happened. It had felt good, and Hannibal’s obvious pride over his actions warmed him like nothing else did. Seeing Hannibal jump to his defense had caused his stomach to flip in a pleasant manner, ignited something deep in his chest that he hoped to feel again. He wondered if he could make it so, luring the Frenchman into a trap, but he shook away the thought with a small amount of shame.

Hannibal worried over him for the rest of the week, and Will loved every second of it. He liked the feel of maroon eyes dragging over his cheek, the slow burning rage whenever Hannibal saw the mark Momund had left. Will enjoyed being held extra tight at night, neither of them deterred by the maid’s careful insistence that they were much too old to share the bed. Lady Murasaki was strangely resigned on the matter, never offering her opinion. With Hannibal’s hand resting over his stomach, Will found himself sometimes wishing he would touch him lower. He couldn’t explain the desire. He shifted occasionally, straining to feel him, but Hannibal would feign sleep and Will was too embarrassed to call him out. It was a normal urge, but he hadn’t been interested in it before. Perhaps because he was indulging so late, he was just confused.

He wished Hannibal didn’t need to leave. 

Will was busy stuffing his mouth with breakfast, wondering what they would do today. He ate quickly, hoping to escape the house before Lady Murasaki decided to join them. Hannibal walked into the room, somewhat under-dressed, and arrived at Will’s side. Will expected a kiss against his cheek, but what he got instead was a question asked in a low voice, pressed to his ear. It was in Lithuanian. 

“Would you like to go fishing this afternoon?”

“With you?” Will tilted back to look at him.

“Of course.”

“ _Just_ you?”

Hannibal inclined his head as if to reassure him, _Just me._

Lady Murasaki was watching them closely. Will wished to smile, show her his teeth out of pure spite, but he settled for a quick nod to Hannibal. He felt his heart thudding wildly against his chest, halfway into his throat. If he opened his mouth he might cough it out.

_Just me._

When Hannibal brought him out front and handed him the helmet to Lady Murasaki’s motorbike, without any fishing gear in tow, Will was curious. He didn’t question it, sliding the thing over his head and wrapping his arms around his brother, cheek pressed to his back as the bike came to life and carried them far away. He took notice of the curved sword Hannibal had slung over his shoulder, sheathed, and wondered what he had in mind. Hannibal was borrowing many of Lady Murasaki’s possessions, and Will wasn’t sure he had the explicit permission to do so. There was a reason they had spoken in an unfamiliar language while she eyed them, with a sixth sense worthy of a mother.  

He stared at the blurred lines of the forest as they passed the trees by, until it dizzied him. They rode down a dirt road that led to a river; Will furrowed his brow, entirely confused.

“We fish with swords now, do we?” he asked, over the sound of the engine. Hannibal laughed.

They settled in a clearing beside the eerily calm water, with Hannibal stretching comfortably on a stump and soaking up the sun, and Will seemingly lost. He blinked at a parked truck, just a little way off, and decided it was best to take a breath and listen to the birds rather than ask. He wanted to dive in the river, and he wished Hannibal had at least let him bring a fishing pole. It was too good a day to waste. He wandered around in the grass, staring longingly out at the water until a man’s strangled yell broke his concentration.

“Hey, you! If you’ve pissed in my fuel tank, I’ll twist your heads off!” the butcher said, bumbling toward them in too-tight clothes, and reeking of fish and guts. He swayed. Will wondered if he was always so dirty and drunk. The man threw his bag on the ground and reached for the fillet knife jutting out of his belt, which squeezed around his middle.  

“Paul Momund,” Hannibal said pleasantly, as if he was welcoming an old friend. 

Will moved to sit on the edge of the stump. He pressed against his shoulder, a bundle of nerves, but Hannibal was completely relaxed.

“Are you crazy?” the butcher said, stopping short. He was suspicious of Hannibal’s happy greeting. Not as dumb as he looks, Will thought. But still dumb.

“I believe you owe a certain someone an apology. No, two. Why don’t we start with my brother, since he’s here?”

“You _are_ crazy!” laughed Momund, hugging himself. “Get out of here, before I throw you both in the river. Or, here's a better idea…”

“That’s all right,” Hannibal said, cutting him off. His lip had curled. “How about the lady, then?”

“La Japonaise? _Ha!_ You really can kiss my ass!”

“Remind me what it was you said.”

“Jap pussy runs crossways, everyone knows that, you stupid boy. You should fuck her and see!”

“Crossways, like so?”

Will fell to the ground, shocked by the speed with which Hannibal moved, and he only caught the glint of the sword before it swiped deep across the butcher’s belly. Stretching out his legs, Will gawked at the sight, his eyes following Hannibal’s carefully timed steps around the man. He was circling him like prey, looking entirely too amused. So this was what he had been learning with Lady Murasaki. The butcher dropped his knife, mouth open in a silent scream.

“Or more tangential to the spine?”

Paul Momund cried out as the sword swung again, and again, across the kidneys this time. He wobbled, holding in his intestines with one hand and placing another over the cuts in his back. Thick saliva dripped from his mouth, his nose running, and tears were streaming down his reddened face. He was holding his breath, too pained to make his lungs work. Will hadn’t the time to register what was happening, before the man’s ankles were sliced to hell and he fell to his hands and knees wailing like a newborn. No one could hear them out here, so Hannibal let the butcher cry all he wanted.

Hannibal crouched, looking down at him. “Are you ready to apologize?”

Paul Momund was unintelligible.

“I can’t hear you.”

“I’m…I-I’m s-sorry…”

“Oh, surely we can do better.”

“I’m s-sorry…”

Hannibal tutted, shaking his head. “Not to me. Apologize to _him_ , you worthless swine.”

“ _I’M SORRY!_ ”

With a pleased smile, Hannibal stood.

When Paul Momund looked at him, Will saw in his eyes every single bully he had run from at the orphanage, every man who had wrongly touched a child. Will looked at Hannibal. He saw clearly the large bruise placed on Hannibal’s cheek, the first day he had met him. The boy who fought in the halls and bit fingers that wagged in his face, and screamed his unimaginable loss at night, almost tearing out his own tongue. The mute child who stood by the moat and fed the swans, gentle, and had held Will’s injured hands.  

“Come,” Hannibal told him, summoning him from his memories.

Will pushed himself to his feet and walked, numb, stopping next to the trembling and bleeding butcher. Hannibal stood behind Will. Will stared at the sword placed into his hands, at the fingers that covered his and directed him, quickly and efficiently teaching him how to properly hold it. It was surprisingly heavy and strained his weaker muscles, but Hannibal took half the weight.

Breath blew hot against his neck, making his skin crawl. It was not unwelcome. “What do you see?”

Paul Momund was trying to crawl away.

“Swine,” Will said, repeating Hannibal’s classification. He saw through his eyes and believed it. 

They brought down the sword together, and Will heard nothing save for the thud of the butcher’s head hitting the ground.

Will heard the happy chattering of birds once his ears stopped ringing, and he realized he was shaking. He let go of the sword, feeling cold when Hannibal left him to clean it off in the grass. Will tilted his head to the side, frowning at the blood still oozing out of the body and the frozen look of horror fixed on the butcher’s pale face, his eyes wide open and unseeing. He was long gone, and the world was better off for it. 

Will turned to watch Hannibal slide the gleaming sword into its case.

“You have blood on your face,” Will said, not feeling like himself.

He ran his thumb over the small amount of blood splashed across Hannibal’s cheek, and sucked on it. It tasted better than the butcher had looked, or smelled. But it was impressive on Hannibal, where it brought out the red glint in his dark eyes. Hannibal was staring at him with a funny expression, windswept with his pupils blown wide, and Will couldn’t place it. The afternoon wore on and neither of them had moved, and Will was still touching him, so he pushed himself to the tips of his toes and kissed him as he had so many months ago. He was slow this time, lingering on his decision, and something like a lightning strike shot through his entire body. He broke away only to breathe.

After some initial hesitation, another tentative kiss was placed to the corner of Will’s mouth, making him shiver. He felt the heavy sigh, rather than heard it, and Hannibal seemed to be warring with himself. Will tried to kiss him again, but hands tugged his curls and pulled him away. Fingers stroked through his shirt, over his shoulder blades and pressing the middle of his back, keeping him where he was but no closer. Hannibal looked him over, and gave him a crooked smile that reached his eyes and showed his teeth. Will swallowed. 

“Do you know how beautiful you are, Will?”

Flushing, Will tore his eyes away. 

They gathered their belongings and after searching the butcher’s discarded bag, found a clean and already gutted fish to bring home. Will said nothing as the butcher’s head was stuffed into the bag with it, and hugged Hannibal from behind as the motorbike gave a low roar and sped off. They left Paul Momund’s immense body where it fell. 

Will didn’t know what Hannibal did with Momund’s head, but he watched him work with the cook that evening to prepare the fish and it smelled delightful. It filled his nose and made his mouth water, his stomach growling loud enough to earn the cook’s chuckle. It startled Will when Lady Murasaki entered the room and hastily pulled Hannibal outside, giving no explanation. The cook was too invested in his lesson to stop teaching, so Will had to stay. He heard a knock on the front door, and still the cook droned on, despite Will's painfully obvious disinterest. When he finally left the kitchen, no longer hungry and rather nauseous instead, Hannibal was gone. Lady Murasaki stood in the foyer alone. Upon seeing Will, she surprised him; she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and said: “It’s all right, cub, he will be back soon.” She left on her motorbike after a change of clothes.

Hannibal did return, late at night. He was unharmed, and briefly spoke of the investigation in which he had been questioned. Nothing incriminating was found and nothing would be found. Will trusted him, but he slept fitfully. He felt better in the morning, smiling at the news of the butcher’s head found mounted on a spike, far away from home and with a swastika etched into his forehead. It had miraculously appeared while Hannibal was being interrogated. The police had no clue where to begin looking for the murderer, knowing that Momund had been hated by all, and Hannibal Lecter had proved to be a dead end. On the face of it, at least.

“They will question you,” Hannibal told Will in private, but he was more preoccupied with Will’s hair than with warning him. He didn’t think it that important, or dangerous. “That Inspector Popil doesn’t like me. I suspect you’ll know what to do without my instruction.”

“I’ll know exactly what they want when they look at me,” Will said, leaning into the touch. “And I won’t give it to them.”

“Yes,” Hannibal confirmed, smiling. He hesitated. “Will…”

Will turned his head.

“Lady Murasaki can no longer stay here. Do you think you might like to live close to me, in Paris?”

Will let it sink in. He tackled Hannibal and buried his face in his chest, spluttering out an enthusiastic and tearful yes. He didn't mind leaving. Home was wherever he might find Hannibal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Will grows into an incredibly sassy, prickly young man, and Hannibal is...Hannibal.


	4. Chapter 4

In the cold loft, faces surrounded him in his sleep.

Will didn’t know the faces, but they had become as familiar to him as his own reflection. Waking, he would watch the hungry black eyes that gazed back, shivering at the bloodied mouths that smiled in response to his brief horror. Always the same series of faces, darkly shaded and spreading out across the walls and over the desk, watching the inhabitants of the room like silent ghosts. He remarked on the drawings very little, despite watching how Hannibal slaved over them, filling the pages of his sketchbooks with depictions of the men who haunted his dreams. Will didn’t need to be told. He knew well enough. And he could see why Hannibal thrashed so violently in his sleep, if these were the faces that waited for him behind closed eyes.

He came to know them by the names Hannibal gave them as a child, in lieu of real names: Blue-Eyes, Bowl-Man, Web-Hand, Pot Watcher…there were more, but they mixed with the faces and became almost one singular being, with starving eyes and crooked teeth. Only one face stuck with him. One, whose expression held more contempt than the rest, cruel and inhuman, _less than human_ , and Will avoided looking at him if he could help it. Sometimes he took the pages down, neatly folded them away, but more would fill the empty space again like clockwork. It was obsessive, despite the calm with which it occurred. Unhealthy, Will thought vaguely. Hannibal wanted to remember. When he didn’t, he showered Will with enough attention to make it all disappear, for a little while.

Paris, though beautiful and luxurious, had proved too lively for Will. He missed the fields and the rivers, and the country house, the fresh air and the birds and the stars. But it was well worth the trade, as he now lived in Hannibal’s loft with him and not with Lady Murasaki, who resided in her own nearby Parisian apartment. He had moved out almost as soon as they arrived. In all fairness, Lady Murasaki was probably happy to be rid of him. He had not made life easy for her, with his mood and his rare company, which was always unpleasant. Hannibal still insisted on visiting often, to provide her entertainment and whatever else she might require, and it amused Will rather than irritated him; Inspector Popil had kept a close eye on the family since they arrived in Paris, and coincidentally had a bit of a crush on the lady. Lady Murasaki, in her own quiet and playful way, mirrored his interest. Hannibal was uncharacteristically bitter at the mere mention of “Pascal,” which only convinced Will to ask after the inspector as much as possible. He liked to watch the emotions that crossed Hannibal’s face, and the admirable attempts made to cover them with indifference. It ended in a pout that Will adored, even if it wasn’t meant for him.

While Popil busied himself with wooing Lady Murasaki and forgetting the incident of the butcher almost in its entirety, but not quite, Will read books and tried to forget the graphite and charcoal men on the walls, and scratched his head at all the possibilities that were laid before him. He appreciated that he had time to reflect, and money to decide what it was he wanted to do with his life, but unfortunately the answer to that was a very simple _Hannibal._ He pushed away his independent studies to cheerfully accept the flowers that were almost daily offered to him, gentle reminders of the countryside that filled the dark room with a brighter scent. He enjoyed the warm meals, prepared by the hands he trusted more than anything else in this world. He loved the bed, bigger than all he had known but still humble, and the fact that they still wound as tightly together in sleep as they had on the small cot in the orphanage.

He didn’t care for the night life, although he attended the opera with Hannibal regularly. It was enjoyable on its own, but he delighted in watching Hannibal during the scenes, at how invested he was and the passion that flitted across his face with the music on stage. Occasionally Lady Murasaki joined them with one companion or another. It was usually the inspector. On those nights, Will found himself torn between amusement at Hannibal and Popil exchanging veiled threats, and Hannibal’s preoccupation with Lady Murasaki. It lessened when the opera was over, when they forgot each other and mingled with the rest of high society. He saw through Hannibal’s mask of interest and noted that he was just as bored as Will was, but too polite to say it, and too busy preening from the attention. People liked him, wanted to be him, while they knew nothing about him. Will would rudely excuse himself, earning mild outrage from the crowd that had gathered close, hoping to take from Hannibal’s charm as though it might be contagious and they might be lucky enough to catch it. It wasn’t, and they weren’t. While Hannibal did not always follow him immediately, he came home in the best of moods and was utterly taken with Will and his behavior, despite how rude he had been. Will made him proud.

Thunder shook the building on the evening Will attended dinner at Lady Murasaki’s apartment by himself. Hannibal was working late, but had suggested that Will dine with her, for his sake. He regretted being unavailable, and would Will take his place? Will was undecided about coming, suddenly faced with a smiling Inspector Popil across the table. It was no fun teasing them when Hannibal wasn’t around to see it, though he preferred this to eating with Lady Murasaki alone. But Popil never smiled like that unless he had certain news to share, or invasive questions to ask. Will prepared himself.

With the first bite, “Has your brother indicated to you any desire to seek out the men who hurt him?”

Lady Murasaki’s knife and fork clanged against her plate, and Will suppressed a smile.

“I don’t believe so, Inspector,” Will said politely, despite wanting to throttle him. “To linger on the past produces thoughts we find rather…untasty.”

“I want you to understand, since he stubbornly refuses, that we would bring these men to justice. If he would only tell me what he knew. He knows something. I had hoped to appeal to you, because you care for him, and he listens to what you have to say.”

“He’s very stubborn, like you said,” Will answered, after a particularly delicious mouthful. He had to be desperate, coming to Will. The attempts to flatter him fell flat. “But I don’t know anything and neither does he, I would imagine. He’s been so preoccupied, you see—”

“Damn you, Will, if he’s withholding information and he acts alone, I _will_ have to treat him like a criminal! And you, an accomplice. He is not the only person who lost family in the war, he doesn’t have the right to do this. I _do._ ”

“Enough,” Lady Murasaki said, unnervingly quiet.

“Would you see him under the guillotine, Will? Your own brother?”

“ _Pascal!_ ” shouted Lady Murasaki, shaking with rage, and Popil shriveled under her fierce glare. It belonged to that of a lioness, shielding her cubs from the threat of an unfamiliar lion. Will was warmed and thankful for it, because the mention of the guillotine had left him quivering slightly.

“Food’s good,” he remarked, drinking deeply from his glass of wine. Inspector Popil might soon find himself treading dangerously thin ice, Will thought, simmering. He had been a like a flea, irritating and small, but now he had gone too far. How dare he even suggest…

Will left the apartment, stumbling through the streets with an incredibly light head and a heavy heart. He would have taken a taxi, but the cool rain felt nice on his heated face, and distracted him some from his thoughts. Inspector Popil was paranoid. Hannibal must have said something inflammatory to him. They had played this game before, and they would again. Hannibal wouldn’t have passed on an opportunity to get under the inspector’s thin skin, with whatever he said. Whether it was the truth or not was an entirely different matter.

He entered the loft dripping wet. However, he was pleasantly surprised to hear the sound of soft music, Gould's recording of _The Goldberg Variations_. It was dark and he could hardly see the faces of the men on the walls, save for when the candles flickered and the lightning flashed. He shrugged off most of his clothes and prepared to crawl into bed, beside Hannibal, wanting to tell him about dinner, but something was wrong. He stopped short, noting how Hannibal’s breathing was unusually slow. His eyes were half-lidded and kept fluttering closed, focusing past Will when they were open. He was seeing, but what he saw was not real. Or not _now._ Will reached to feel his head. It was warm. He opened his mouth to ask what had happened, when he eyed the needle in his arm.

“Mischa,” Hannibal said, completely gone.

Beside the bed, a small vial labeled _Sodium thiopental._

Will watched him dutifully through narrowed eyes, straining to see his outline in the low light. He removed the needle and wiped his face. He listened to the music, observing the occasional twitching or moaning of his brother, which finally ebbed once the storm had passed. It was almost planned. Realizing Hannibal would likely need to sleep off the effects before he was comprehensible, Will stretched out beside him and closed his eyes. He visited his mind palace, adjacent to Hannibal’s, and scanned through his books in an attempt to place the drug. If he could just visit next door, it might be easier. But some things are impossible.

Hours later, he felt an almost dead weight on his chest. It startled him awake.

“You tricked me,” Will said, alarmed at how sour he sounded. In apology, he ran his fingers through Hannibal’s hair.

“The lodge,” Hannibal choked. Despite his inability to move, he was excitable. “The dog tags are there. I need them.”

Will stared at him.  

“The ones who killed Mischa, their names are buried in the ruins. I have to go home.”

“Home?”

“In Lithuania. Would you come with me, help me? I need you, Will.”

“Of course I would!” Will said, incredulous. He could have hit him. But Hannibal was so pitifully nauseous already, Will settled for kissing his head.   

Unable to risk the eyes of Popil following them there, Lady Murasaki was spared the knowledge of their abrupt departure. They left as soon as Hannibal’s nausea and drowsiness had passed, which had taken a couple of days. Lady Murasaki would learn of their absence soon enough, and Popil, but they arrived in Lithuania with plenty of time to spare. Will could see Lecter Castle just through the trees, once they hopped off the train and disappeared deep within the forest. He heard sounds from the castle, though the light was going out for bedtime. The Headmaster was still there, along with a new set of children to terrorize. He shook as they came close under cover of approaching darkness, but it was the stables Hannibal was after. Will recognized one of the horses, surprised it was still alive. It was a sturdy and reliable thing. Hannibal convinced it to follow them after it had been properly fitted with a pulling harness. They borrowed a lantern and a rope. He was glad to have the company of the horse, which nosed at him and bumped his shoulder occasionally. He wondered if it remembered them, even just a little.  

They returned to the forest, coming across a stretch of land filled with downed trees. The sign ahead warned in Russian of unexploded bombs and shells, and other various remnants of the war. Will followed Hannibal’s footsteps and hoped his miraculous sense of smell would keep them out of harm’s way. Despite his faith, he felt a bead of sweat roll down his back. Night fell. He held the lantern tight, tripping over rocks and branches, holding his breath each time and cursing aloud when he realized he was still alive. Likely irritated with all his noise, Hannibal stopped and threw an arm around him, gently reassuring him that he was safe. Will erupted into nervous laughter. He felt leagues better, walking like that, until they reached the lodge.

It stood, but some of its walls and part of the roof had caved in, and it was nearly camouflaged by the plant life that had grown over it. Will stared openly at the Soviet tank close to it, just as covered by vines and weeds, but looming all the same. Hannibal was staring, also. His eyes were clouded. Will chose not to rush him, waiting patiently until he was ready. Hannibal scanned the ground as though he was looking for something. Will realized he was looking for bodies that had no doubt lain there, a lifetime ago. His father, his mother? Mischa?

The door was easy to push open, just barely hanging on the frame. Will shied from a startled bird, but that and mice seemed to be the only inhabitants left. Will set the lantern down and helped Hannibal tie a rope to some of the debris crowding the room. The horse pulled until the pile broke apart and revealed a great many things. With their mouths and noses covered by scarves, they tore through the mess, searching for the dog tags. Or, Will did. Hannibal seemed distracted, stopped by specific items that took a few moments of his time before he tossed them out, suddenly uncaring.

Will fell back after unearthing a human skeleton, heaving hard. Hannibal calmly withdrew a large bag from the skeleton’s grip. “That would be one of them,” he explained, and turned the bag upside down. Various items poured onto the floor, and finally with a notable clink came the bunch of dog tags. While Hannibal flicked through each one, Will’s eyes settled on a small child’s bathtub. He couldn’t see how Hannibal had missed it, with it sitting in the middle of the room. Something peeked out of it, and Will didn’t have the sense to not look. He felt sick. It was filled with bones. Small bones, picked clean. Human. He closed his eyes after spotting the skull of a baby, and made a noise. Hannibal hummed sympathetically behind him, and Will whirled around to see him still examining the tags. He turned them over in his fingers. It was something for him to do with his hands.

He knew.

“Mischa?” Will asked. His stomach churned.

Hannibal placed the tags around his neck and avoided Will’s general direction. “Should we bury her? Does it matter?”  

“I think it does,” Will said. “She would have appreciated it, I think.”

“Mischa’s dead,” Hannibal reminded him. He wasn’t angry. They tensed at the sound of clumsy footsteps near one of the windows, and Hannibal scented the air.

“We have company,” he said thoughtfully, only loud enough for Will to hear, and picked up a heavy plank of wood before wandering outside. Will heard a satisfying thud, and came out to see a man sprawled on the ground, knocked unconscious. The man’s ugly face was familiar, one of the many faces that had been sketched in charcoal and pinned to the walls of their loft. _Web-Hand._ How he had found them was a mystery, but he was certainly going to die. Will yanked the pistol out of Web-Hand’s grip, and hid it inside the lodge. Let some thief have it.

Guns were too impersonal, Hannibal agreed.

They took him into the forest, tied him to a tree, and he woke with the sun.

Will stood next to Mischa’s new grave, watching Hannibal greet the man as _Dortlich_ , studying his identification and the dog tag with his name. Hannibal politely asked him where the others had gone. When Dortlich failed to comply, and completely denied his identity, Hannibal reminded him of what he had done. He spoke as though to a child. Will listened, because he had never asked, and finally understood. The pieces came together. They had eaten poor Mischa in the dead of winter, and Hannibal had watched them do it, helpless to prevent it. They were starving. They planned to eat him next.

Hannibal tied an expert noose, tightening one end around Dortlich’s throat and the other to the horse. Fear flashed in Dortlich’s eyes as he realized what was happening to him, and his tongue loosened. He spilled the whereabouts of the men he knew were alive, pleading with Hannibal that he had not eaten her, only watched. Hannibal smiled and thanked him, and walked the horse forward. He asked for Dortlich to sing for slack, sing for Mischa, and Will recognized the German song that had sounded so sweet in his ear the night before Hannibal first left him for school.

It should have haunted him, watching Dortlich choke and eventually bend, naming more names and singing what he could afford to sing, until he couldn’t sing or speak at all. The sickening crunch made Will flinch, but he kept his eyes open. The spray of blood was impressive and the silence afterward was deafening. If Hannibal was satisfied, he didn’t look it. Will approached him slowly, testing his mood, but Hannibal welcomed him and tilted his head to rest it on top of Will’s.

“Do you remember what the cook said, when we brought him the fish from the butcher?”

“Not at all,” Will said truthfully.

Hannibal’s amusement rumbled in his throat. “The best morsels of the fish are the cheeks. This is true of many creatures,” he recited, word for word. His eyes flicked to the ground, to Dortlich’s head. It reminded Will of Paul Momund, gruesomely poetic. “Two. One for you, and one for me. There is no madame for me to offer it first, unless we count Mischa. What do you think? Are you hungry, Will?”

He was.

After their long journey, Will wanted to sleep until the sun had set at least twice. Instead he took in the bare walls of the loft, the sketches of the faces missing, some ripped pieces left behind and fluttering with the fresh air. “Inspector Popil knows we left,” he decided, fuming, while Hannibal inspected the desk and found it empty, too. “He’ll come calling soon, won’t he?”

“Most likely,” Hannibal said, and sank into the bed. “We might find ourselves under his surveillance, but he has cried wolf enough that it won’t be for very long. I made sure of that. He’s probably pestering Lady Murasaki as we speak. We have time. Come here,” he said, and held out his arm. Reluctantly, Will took his hand and let himself be pulled down onto the mattress. It was soft, and tempted him to rest. “Aren’t you tired?”

“I’m exhausted,” Will snapped. “I’m too busy worrying about you, since you won’t. You never do.”

“Nothing is going to happen to me, or to you.”

Will propped himself up to argue. “Dortlich knew we were there because someone recognized you. The rest of them might know you’re alive, then, and they’ll be expecting us.”

“Oh? Us?”

Jaw dropped, Will protested a little too loud, “Of course _us!_ I’m not letting you do this alone, you’ll get yourself killed! Who else will tell you when you’re being stupid? Which is always!” He paused, temporarily stunned by the fond smile that spread across Hannibal’s face. 

“Will.”

“Yes, what?” He managed to sound disgruntled enough, but it faded as fingers grabbed cheek, keeping him from looking away.

“Thank you,” Hannibal said quietly.

Will almost responded with _of course_ , but he suddenly felt very heavy. He recognized the expression on Hannibal's face, recalling how Hannibal had looked at him after they killed the butcher together, with his pupils wide, nostrils flaring, taking in his scent. Committing him to memory, like it might turn to mist and disappear forever. Storing it away in the mind palace. Hannibal had looked at him like that often, in the years since. And before. Until now, Will hadn’t been able to place it.  

_Do you know how beautiful you are, Will?_

Will crawled atop him and looked at him for a while before he kissed him. He didn’t expect much. He had tried this, twice. He didn't predict the heated enthusiasm he was met with now, the electricity that surged between them both and the breathlessness that ensued, causing him to tremble with need but he didn’t know what it was he needed. He couldn’t figure it out, he didn’t know what to do. He was holding something precious he had always wanted but never believed he could have. Now he had it. He didn’t feel the tears running down his cheeks, only the soft touches that took them away.

He let himself be laid down, with startlingly warm hands on his waist, and stared up in disbelief as Hannibal leaned over him. Will shivered at the touch of lips to his throat, trailing along his jaw and back to his mouth again. He tugged the dog tags over Hannibal's head and tossed them to the floor. Teeth fixed into his neck and he cried out, despite hardly feeling a thing. It had been a gentle bite. But he was on fire, and he tried to quench his thirst with the shared kisses but it wasn’t enough. Not knowing, he opened his legs and brushed against Hannibal’s hips with his own, searching for some kind of relief. He only realized he had done it when Hannibal hesitated, taking a breath while Will held his, and at last pressed his weight down on him. Will swore he saw stars. They carried on rubbing against each other, breathing heavily, Will nearing intoxication and pleasurably dizzy at the feel of him, his heart almost lunging out of his mouth whenever it thudded hard against his chest.

“I’ve wanted you,” Hannibal said, warm. Everywhere now. “Like this, for a long time.”

“Stop that.” Will had moaned at his confession, squeezing around Hannibal’s waist. He couldn’t bear it. “I’m going to die if you say anything else. I can’t…I just can’t.”

“You’re beautiful. You are so much more than my brother. I love you, Will.”

“Hannibal…”

“I love you. Je t'aime…”

Will closed his eyes tight, his mouth falling open but no sound came from it, just his pained breath as he experienced the most satisfying orgasm he had ever known. Just from this. He whimpered into Hannibal’s mouth, feeling him tense and sigh with him, saying his name. The slow rocking stopped. Everything tingled, oversensitive to touch. He twitched. His mind was empty for a while, save for the pure contentment he felt. He held Hannibal tight, grasping his shoulders and keeping him where he was, refusing to let him go. Will needed his weight to ground him, else he might float away.

He wanted to stay here, forever.

“I think I died a little,” Will confessed, embarrassed. His release seeped through his pants. “You killed me after all.”

“La petite mort,” Hannibal said, sounding slightly amused. He started kissing whatever he could reach without leaving him. “I will never hurt you, Will.”

“I love you, too.” Will accepted the kisses, finding his mouth. “I love you, I love you…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NBC Will Graham: sounds fake but okay
> 
> Fun fact I wouldn't have known if I didn't do my research; the horse is Cesar, and he belonged first to Hannibal's family. He apparently survived the storming of the castle until it became an orphanage, and still lived there until Hannibal returned and used his help to clear the rubbish at the lodge, and kill Dortlich. He was given a slap on the butt and sent back home. What a lucky horse!


	5. Chapter 5

Bronys Grentz was an isolated and lonesome taxidermist, retired in Quebec. He was the last to die. It was fast and efficient, business-like. Grentz was waiting for them. He faced death with quiet tears but he did not plead for mercy. In exchange for his honorable decision, he didn’t feel much. When it was over, Will embraced his brother and they stood in the empty shop for a long while, bundled in several layers of clothes and sharing warmth. Neither of them knew how to break the silence. It was surreal. But Will felt a surge of happiness; it was over, they could start anew. All the men who had eaten little Mischa were dead, save for one.

_You ate her, half-conscious, your lips greedy around the spoon. You have to kill everyone who knows it, don't you?_

It had been months ago. His eyes were nearly white, and cold as the incessant snow that had fated Mischa’s death. _Blue-Eyes._ Grutas had looked like a wolf, with his crooked teeth and his wide smile. How pleased he was, even on the brink of death, to see his Hannibal’s distress at his words. Will had known. He knew because Hannibal had known, deep down. Either he had repressed the memory or been vehemently denying it. It was the only time Will saw him cry, and the first that he watched him tear off a man’s face with his teeth. Will closed his eyes, listening to the broken screams, and waited. It turned into choking. Grutas was choking on himself, swallowing himself. Will imagined the ragged pieces of flesh in his own teeth.

Lady Murasaki had not been so accepting.

During the boy’s childhood, a professional had warned that she might lose Hannibal forever, should he remember what happened to his sister. It finally happened, she thought. It was clear on her face. Her distaste. She saw a vast emptiness in both of her cubs, and her heart was broken. Will wasn’t sympathetic. Hannibal had simply dropped his mask. She finally saw him for what he was, but she preferred to think the experience had changed him into a monster. It was easier for her to accept. She shied away, despite her genuine love for them. Hannibal later said she reeked of fear. Will wondered what fear smelled like.

Inspector Popil found them easily, because they were not hiding, and brought them into custody. The public was outraged. Why were the police terrorizing two young men with no criminal history? A medical student, best in his class? And the other, just a boy? What had the boy done? All the evidence had burned, leaving nothing behind but smoke and soot and Inspector Popil’s suspicions. It would not hold. Not even bringing up the long-dead butcher could save his case, or his slipping reputation. He reluctantly released the brothers and resigned shortly after. He received unmarked letters that tormented him, asking after the beautiful Lady Murasaki and her health. He started burning them. Lady Murasaki had returned home months earlier, without seeing him.

Hannibal earned an internship at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, Maryland.

Bronys Grentz had been a detour along the way.

Will enjoyed America, where everything was fast and the people were open, easy to read. Full of themselves, too worried about their own wants and desires to notice the presence of two more foreigners, no matter how strange. It was a glamorous country, when it wanted to be. Disgusting, too, but Hannibal could find the beauty in everything. Will followed his lead. It was more than enough, to have one beautiful thing, always within reach.

It didn’t take long to kill again. It started with a slight made against one of them in the marketplace. The irony didn’t miss him. It was messy and unplanned, quickly discarded and written off as a freak incident by the local authorities. And then there was another. And another. It escalated. Steadied by the young surgeon’s hands, Will let himself hunger. He had watched for so long, without participating. He stopped observing. He learned to hold the knife, to cut deep and precise, to feel inside and pluck the throbbing organs from live donors, and pack them away in ice. It would have always ended like this, with his fingers red and steaming meals waiting at the dinner table, while he waited for another chance to chase. Glancing over his shoulder for his brother’s soft approval. Beaming with blood on his mouth.

He liked to study the emotions that flickered across their faces, just before death. What was it they thought about? What were the last pictures behind their eyes? When they wriggled like worms he felt nothing, easing himself into Hannibal’s state of mind, adapting, evolving. He mimicked. But it didn’t feel like imitation. He was coming into his own, learning to let go of the outstretched hand that was offered to him, like a child balancing on his bike. After the first thrill alone, he couldn’t stop. Hannibal didn’t want him to. He felt alive. It never occurred to him to stop.

His heart was still racing from the latest kill, hours after.

“What am I going to do, when we get caught? I can’t live without you.”

Will said this, blinking the water out of his eyes and pressing his face into Hannibal’s warm throat. Hot water ran over his back. He wasn’t in the mood to watch the blood slipping between them, swirling down the drain. Where it had been fascinating before, today it made him nauseous. He relaxed into the hands that massaged his head, tugging through stubborn curls that had only grown wilder since childhood.

“If it happened, we have the palace, yours and mine.”

He shook his head, smearing his mouth over Hannibal’s shoulder. “It won’t be the same. It’s not the same,” he said, voice muffled. “You’re not going to leave me. I won’t let you.”

“Will, I would never—”

“Not _willingly._ ”

Will clenched his teeth, resisting against the palm that spread over his cheek and tried to lift his head. Eventually, he relented. He opened his smoke colored eyes, yielding to the dark crimson reflected back at him.

“Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know,” Will said.

“Do you feel regret?”

“No.”

“What scares you?”   

“I don’t want to lose you!” Will said sorely, recoiling. “Is that so hard to believe, or understand? Stop that, stop smiling at me. You look fucking ridiculous.”

“If you say so,” Hannibal said, advancing.  

Will was equally stubborn, retreating until his back hit the cold wall. He made a noise and flinched away from it, instinctively pressing into Hannibal’s front. Hannibal teased him anyway, pinning Will against the wall and forcing him to absorb the chill from the tile until it was tolerable. Jarred awake, Will melted into his warmth, trembling from the hands that grasped the backs of his thighs, sliding further up and digging into the soft, abundant flesh there. He never tired of being touched, especially now.

“Buy us a safe house,” he said quickly, before he could forget what it was he wanted. “Someplace that’s just ours, away from the rest of world. Where it’s quiet. Safe.”  

“Where?”

“I don’t care. Just do it.”

“Nothing will happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I will not allow it to happen, not to you.”

They soaked the white sheets with watered down blood, too impatient to rinse one last time before throwing themselves into the blankets and pillows, dripping wet. It would all have to be burned, but Will didn’t care. Things were replaceable. He straddled him, focusing on the tensing muscles where fingers brushed over his skin, where a mouth kissed. He fell apart from the invasive touches that left him quivering and incoherent, obediently spreading his legs and searching for relief when he finally sank down into Hannibal’s lap and cried out as he was stretched and filled. It was equal parts pleasure and pain.

He loved the intimacy of the act. It was as close as they could come to being one. He took what he needed until he tired himself out and collapsed, unfinished, resigning himself to the achingly slow thrusts beneath him. He shifted until it was even more unbearable, panting hard into Hannibal’s mouth and kissing him until their lips were swollen and numb. One hand pressed against the middle of his back and the other behind his neck, tangling in his hair, their bodies moving together, faster.

“You are my favorite person in the world,” Hannibal told him quietly.

“Don’t you ever leave me. I’ll kill you first,” Will said, gritting his teeth.

Hannibal hummed his assent. He was shivering.

_How?_

_You’re terrible._

For years it was like this, only playful.

But they were young and in love, and their appetites grew.

Prying eyes turned to their unusual living arrangements, unknown origin, and questionable relationship. Hannibal treated the increasing risk as welcome distraction, once more the overeager medical student that had first taunted Inspector Popil like the cat who caught the fluttering butterfly, aiming to pull off its wings. Not to eat it, but to see it squirm. Will admired his skill, how he teetered on the edge but never enough to lose his balance and fall. He left both false and authentic trails for the authorities to follow, but he always remained several steps ahead. Will was not so versed in the art of foreplay, but he learned out of necessity. Unlike Hannibal, provoking the police only served to make Will anxious. That wasn’t the fun part for him. This wasn’t like teasing Inspector Popil, worlds away. It would only take one mistake to bring their fragile house of cards tumbling down.

It ended up being sheer luck.   

The human heart was still hot in his gloved hand when uniformed men and women stormed into the house. His fingers tightened on the blade in his other hand. Glass was still shattering, and the waves of padded armor seemed endless. Hannibal stood beside him, his own hands stained red. He was perplexed, but not afraid, not even then. Composed, he placed himself in front of his brother.

“Go willingly,” Hannibal told him. 

Will couldn’t.

_“Get on the ground, now! Put your hands behind your head!”_

_“Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, you’re both under arrest! Get down! Get down or we’ll shoot!”_

“Will,” Hannibal said, edging close to a warning. “Trust me.”

_“Fucking get down!”_

Will ignored them.

“Don’t, Will.”

He made his decision. He brought his arm around Hannibal’s neck, the blade curving to meet it. He intended to kill him, and hopefully himself. It had just broken through the skin when a bullet ripped through his shoulder and knocked him flat on his back, the knife clattering to the floor some feet away from his hand. It was a searing pain, but he managed to twist around to reach for the blade. Steps quickened. He was shoved onto his stomach and his arms were yanked harshly behind his back, despite his loud protest. The action clouded his vision, made it threaten to fade. His cheek was pressed forcefully against the cold floor and he could see Hannibal struggling in a similar position, desperately trying to catch the blood pouring from his throat. There was murder in his eyes, not meant for Will.

_“Watch it, watch the knife. Kick it. Get them up, just—Watch it, not so close, you fucking idiot, you’ll—”_

Will blacked out completely, but not before he heard a yell and the sound of ripping flesh, and shots fired.

He remembered little of the ride in the ambulance, and none of the surgery. He could only fret on the verge of wakefulness, panicked and stuck inside his own head, searching for his brother and not finding him, not hearing him, not smelling him, nothing. When he woke in the hospital he leaned over the side of the bed to vomit, but found he was strapped down with his feet tied and his hands cuffed to the rails. He was reeling, unable to focus his eyes because the ceiling kept shifting above him. It was spinning. His gaze landed on the officers guarding the doorway. He started talking, but none of it made sense. He tried to ask them what happened, _Where is my brother?_ He was met with a series of blank stares, melting away into nothingness. When he woke again, he felt better. He screamed, guttural, struggling against his restraints until bruises and blood formed around his wrists and his shoulder felt like it might tear open. He swore it did. It must have. Multiple nurses rushed to his side and with a small pinch he started to settle, against his will, glowering sleepily past them and at the emotionless men that kept their silent, dutiful watch over him. This went on for a while, his explosive fits and the sedation that followed, until he was smart enough to feign calm.

“Where is he?” he asked, to anyone who would listen.

“Dying, if there’s any God,” a guard finally answered.  

Will made it a point to memorize his face. He imagined eating it off him.

He wept quietly, heart hammering in his chest, unable to do more than live the moment over and over until he made himself sick. He couldn’t remember the last time they had been apart for so long, and it felt like being ripped in two, down the middle. Dissection, pieces of him being removed while he was alive. It felt like dying, but without the relief of actual death. He couldn’t breathe. _He left without me. He promised me, he promised he wouldn’t. It has to be both of us._

He didn’t know the time or the date when an unfamiliar man stepped into the room and hovered over him. Not a bad man, but opportunistic. Will saw it when he looked at him, noting his powerful but solemn presence. It was hard to focus on the badge that flashed in his face, on the words that were leaving the man’s mouth.

“Jack Crawford,” Will said slowly, repeating the name. “Eff Bee Eye,” he drawled, pleasantly surprised when the man adjusted the hospital bed for him.

Jack Crawford pulled up a seat for himself. “How are you, Will?” he asked.

He didn’t mean it, so Will didn’t bother answering. He waited and Jack waited, until one of them spoke.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“Before you tell me?”

“Ideally.”

“Where is my brother?” Will asked, and held his breath.

Jack considered his options, before his next words fixed and broke Will’s entire world: “Out of the woods, today. He’s lucky to be alive. What happened, Will? Do you remember?” 

“I don’t know,” Will breathed. He wasn’t listening. _He’s alive._

Jack lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if the answers were written for him overhead. “When we caught you both red-handed, pardon the expression, you cut his throat. You weren’t doing it to bargain. You cut him to kill. Would you mind telling me why you did that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have had a reason.” Jack Crawford wanted something.

“I’m not sure,” Will lied.

“Were you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Who were you afraid of?”

_Oh._

Will said nothing.

“You’re safe now, Will. You can tell me.”

He kept quiet. Jack’s patience dissipated.

“You know, it’s damn smart of you, of him. You look much younger than you really are. You look like a kid. That’ll tug some heart strings. Yeah, the public will love you. You’re good. But you’re not actually innocent, Will, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hannibal Lecter claims to have brainwashed you, manipulated and abused you into helping him. The Chesapeake Ripper. He’s not denying anything. Confessed the moment I walked into his room, smiled at me and told me he raped you, held you hostage. You panicked when we arrived. You tried to kill him to free yourself. Any of that true?”

_What are you doing, Hannibal?_

He asked Will to trust him.

It physically pained Will to cheapen and betray everything he ever held close, with just the barest hint of a nod. It hurt. He bit down on his tongue.

“Uh-huh,” Jack said, giving him a knowing smile of his own. He didn’t believe a word. “Why would he tell me that? He mutilated the man who shot you, after he surrendered. Why would he do that?”  

_Because he loves me._

“He thinks I’m his,” Will said, his voice breaking. His shame was genuine, running deep. “He’s insane.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically this is the last chapter, save for the short epilogue next.

Keeping up-to-date with the interviews and the running stories was almost pointless, at least while Will was under strict observation. In the hospital, he watched the television whenever the guards flicked it on. They weren’t supposed to, but they got bored. Will had stopped screaming. He absorbed the information that passed through the news channels and the whispering outside his door. He willed himself to be like his brother. Quiet, endlessly patient. He closed his eyes and tucked away the files in his mind, listening to the dumbfounded reporters and the intense speculation. Most details were withheld. But it would leak, sooner or later. He learned the identity of the officer that shot him, and according to one news station (all of them, after the word got out) the officer was “still in critical condition.” He was missing his eyes, among other things. Will passed the time imagining what else, and spent his nights wandering the memory palace searching for his ferocious, gentle, dark-eyed Hannibal. Will couldn’t find him. Not even in his own mind. It was immensely discouraging.  

 _He’s somewhere in the same building as me_ , Will thought, awake in the dark. Tugging on his restraints. _He must be._

Knowing, not knowing, both reduced him to a pathetic, quivering mess. Hannibal’s throat was cut. Will didn’t know how deeply. He couldn’t remember the blade sinking in, only the blood. Shots were fired and at least one of them had landed. He didn’t know where. Asking to see Hannibal was stupid. He needed the public to think he was the victim. Or rather, Hannibal wanted them to. It was strangely working, as far as Will could see. People loved a good redemption arc, the relatable victim-turned-hero, attacking his captor. It was exhausting to keep pretending, because it hurt to think in those terms. Will liked the early days, when he was too ill to be bothered, too sedated, before he was abruptly hauled away and locked inside a small white room with an ugly green vinyl mattress and a stainless steel toilet. Maybe it was the fault of his childlike face, his recovering from infection, the weeping; or he was just too special to mingle with the rest of the population. He spoke with a lawyer, but couldn’t remember hiring him, or having one appointed to him. Will wouldn’t have been surprised if Hannibal had been the one pulling the strings, keeping him safe, even from the confines of his almost-deathbed. Will recovered at his own pace. He held his breath whenever he was awake, hoping the silence and solitude wouldn’t drive him insane. He spent months pouring over memories, imagining the feel of warm skin against his, wondering if he would ever experience it again. He claimed innocence, all the while desiring to tear everyone apart. He wanted to claw open his own chest and remove his heart, send it to Hannibal, because it felt like it was breaking. Hannibal could fix it. Time passed without passing. He paid little attention to what was happening to him. A comfortable numbness engulfed his entire being, until he was removed.

Under the weight of the sun, his eyes widened at the crowd gathered outside the courthouse. He didn’t expect the happy smiling faces, the sheer excitement in their eyes when they spotted him, the white noise. He was, apparently, a very big deal. He stared, vacant, at the cameras pointed in his face, the journalists rushing him like hungry dogs. They were hopeful. They pitied him. They _wanted_ him to be good. Cut off from the rest of the world, he didn’t know what story had been spun, exactly, what had stuck in the minds of the people. What did they believe, or want to believe? What did Hannibal need them to think? What did he need Will to do?

Hannibal.

Will’s eyes adjusted inside the courtroom and he looked. And looked. Whether he was a victim or a partner to the crimes, to an outsider his horror would seem legitimate. He let himself feast on the sight of his brother, barely silencing the gasp that threatened to escape his open mouth. Hannibal was alarmingly close to the malnourished orphan Will had first met. He was thin and white as a sheet, with heavy shadows under his eyes. It was visible from where Will tucked himself into a seat, far from him. The mark curving around his neck stood out against his pale skin, and there were injuries that Will couldn’t see. He wanted to see. Will looked him over, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Hannibal’s expressionless face, to see more. His heart stopped when he saw the wheelchair. But Hannibal shifted. He was not paralyzed, as Will had feared. Will shivered with relief, but it was short-lived. Hannibal was obviously uncomfortable in the immaculate suit he wore, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead and dampening his neatly parted hair. He seemed just one moment away from fainting, and yet he stubbornly held his head high. He lifted his chin, jaw set, allowing only his eyes to rest closed. In that moment, Will was reminded of the proud Lady Murasaki.

He watched Hannibal scent the air, searching for a familiar smell, differentiating this one from the rest.

_Look at me._

Hannibal found it, inhaling deeply as he savored the taste. He swallowed.

_Look at me…_

Hannibal didn’t look at him.

When he returned to his cell, Will was fuming. He considered what he could do to act out, how he might harm himself to hurt Hannibal, or what he could successfully break without attracting too much unwanted attention. He wanted to throw a tantrum. Not even the tears would come, and it frustrated him. He dug his short nails into the bed, worrying the loose stitching of his sheets, until a flicker of movement in the corner of the room sent him scrambling, his back pressed flat to the wall.

“You’re angry with me.” Hannibal tilted his head inquisitively, looking perfectly healthy.

“You’re not real,” Will countered, sounding broken.

“Does that matter?”

“It does to me.”

“This is all you have, for now. Please, don’t be angry with me.”

“You’re _definitely_ not real,” Will said sorely.

“You must trust me, Will.”

He wanted to.

He fell asleep with his head in Hannibal’s lap, uncaring that it wasn’t actually happening because he could physically _feel_ the fingers running through his hair and over his shoulders and it was enough, enough, for now. It was then, shivering from the ghostlike touches, the comforting delusion, that he realized he might never feel Hannibal’s warmth again.

He would _never_ feel him, except in his mind. 

The tears flowed, breaking past the dam his anger had so carefully set in place. He hardly slept for weeks, until his body was too exhausted to continue thrashing in his sleep, or while awake. He stopped eating, unable to keep down what he did eat, and he was introduced to a psychiatrist. He decided to play mute. It had always worked for Hannibal.  

When Will saw him again, it was after the next court date had been postponed for another few months. Apparently, an inmate had been too forward, and was found choking to death on his own intestines in the bottom of a stairwell. _Eat shit_ , Will thought, amused despite his poor mood. He wondered if it had been a gift just for him, because it was strangely crude, and his humor. Hannibal was caught watching the inmate, casually leaning over the railing with his head resting in one hand, shouting to the prison guard below a polite hello and how-are-you. He might have otherwise gone unnoticed. Hannibal must have been feeling much better that day, Will decided, or just incredibly bitchy.

The unlucky inmate was twice Hannibal’s size, according to Will’s talkative, entirely unorthodox psychiatrist. Frederick Chilton talked about Hannibal often, hoping to step on Will’s toes, to elicit some sort of a reaction that wasn’t his usual dead silence. This led to Will understanding more of what was happening than when he was being cooperative. He made it a point to be a complete pain in the ass, because it meant Chilton would tempt him with more gossip. Chilton wholeheartedly believed Will’s story. He also decided, obnoxiously and with much self-importance, that Hannibal suffered from antisocial personality disorder and was a classic narcissist. Will didn’t have much faith in Chilton. Will wasn’t innocent, and Hannibal defied classification.

It was impossible to keep the stairwell incident out of the news, and everything else when it came to Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. Will didn’t know what to do with the overwhelming public support thrust upon him, coming from perfect strangers that empathized with his situation or simply wanted to know him, to touch him. It was absolute bullshit, and he ignored it for as long as he could, until it was impossible. People started following him. He saw himself everywhere, doe-eyed and innocent. The glimpses were shown in a flattering light, but nevertheless, Will was not ignorant to less favorable opinions.

_Gentlemen Killers_

_Incestuous Murder Spree_

_The Chesapeake Ripper; Table for two?_

It was interesting, though, opening the letters and reading the countless marriage proposals from…lovely women, surely. He wondered how many more letters made their way to Hannibal. Will was no longer surprised, taking everything with a grain of salt, amused with the people that didn’t even believe the official story; some openly wanted them to be together, even if it was all true. He supposed it must have been, in a way that made absolutely no sense to him, romantic.

Guilty but insane or mentally ill was the ultimate conclusion for Hannibal, and Will wasn’t sure if he should be disappointed or relieved. Did it even matter? The only reason he was still clinging to life was because Hannibal asked him to, and it was Will's fault they hadn't died. Will was a recently free man when the verdict was read, but he didn’t feel free. His cramped, empty apartment was in ruins, dishes and clothes remained where they landed weeks prior, and he didn’t consider it home. Nothing would ever feel like home. It might have been easier on him if Hannibal had received the death sentence. Will would follow, if he asked. If he only asked. He never asked. 

Hannibal didn’t seem pleased or displeased. Will waited until the crowd had settled, more or less, before he confronted him, avoiding the panicked grasping of the people surrounding them. He grabbed Hannibal’s hands. Hannibal looked at him, finally. Will didn’t see or hear the men and women crying out, the outrage and overall excitement, the flashing lights. Only the dark maroon eyes fixing on his, as soft and warm as the skin quickly heating under his fingers. Ignoring the pull against his clothes, the deafening noise in the courtroom, hands landing on his shoulders to take him away, he kissed him. “I love you,” Will breathed into his mouth, almost too quiet. Will memorized his lips, the burning desire. It was hungrier than he expected, for both of them, and rudely interrupted. Will let himself be carried away, never tearing his eyes away from Hannibal, who watched him leave with something like regret.  

It would have been damning, if Will wasn’t already free. All the same, he moved out of the apartment climbed into the first taxi he saw. “Where to?” the driver asked, observing through the mirror the young man with his single, solitary box of possessions. Most everything else had been taken as evidence. The driver didn’t recognize him. “I don’t know,” Will said quietly, almost too soft to hear. Pressured to speak, he considered the safe house. _No._ He closed his mouth. Instinctively, he wanted to protect it, because it belonged to them. He would keep it secret. What if they needed it?

Not likely.

_What am I supposed to do now?_

He moved to the countryside, the surroundings reminiscent of the old French house where he spent his childhood under Robert Lecter and Lady Murasaki’s care. The new house was humble and cheap, affordable with his lack of funds, since he was on his own. He knew there was money that had remained untouched by the FBI, but he didn’t know how to retrieve it, and he couldn’t exactly ask. It didn’t matter. He renovated the house the old fashioned way, pouring vast amounts of time and effort into the maintenance it required, because it made the days pass easier and it exhausted him. It helped him sleep through the night. He started doing odd jobs around the small town. The older people didn’t care about where he came from, or what he was. Maybe they didn’t know. It was fair money, and they didn’t bother him too much, only to offer refreshments and make small talk that didn’t require him to do much more than listen. It was a good, simple life, but it didn’t make him happy. When someone finally recognized him on the side of the road, with car trouble, he briefly considered killing them. His heart leapt with welcome excitement. Disturbed by the impulse, he hurried home and drank himself into a stupor.

He put off purchasing a television, even when he could afford one, and he didn’t read the papers, not until he thought he could handle it. He couldn’t. Seeing their pixelated faces made him sick. He missed Hannibal. He thought about manipulating his way into visiting him. He thought about writing to him, or letting him know where he was. He thought about the fact that such actions might endanger them both, make Hannibal’s sacrifice and Will’s narrow escape entirely pointless. If he was even granted permission. On some level he knew he was making excuses, that he was afraid if he saw Hannibal, he wouldn’t be capable of leaving him, not again. Looking through the glass, without touching, knowing he could never touch. He might lose it. Oh, he wanted to go. Wouldn’t the pain be worth the few minutes of seeing his face? Why didn’t he do it? Would Hannibal want him to, or would he turn away, pretend he wasn’t there? He had done just that during the trial, until Will kissed him, forced him to finally look, to see. Did he expect Will to do this alone?

Always, they were together.

Will was giving serious thought to disappearing, lounging on the bare floor with his eyes closed, gone into his palace, when he heard the knock. He hoped it was Jack Crawford with new information, come to apprehend him. He might fight. He might not. He would decide when he answered the door. Feet planted, he swung it open, prepared for anything except the sight before him.

She stood proud, a grown woman now, with luggage at her feet.

“Chiyoh,” Will breathed, nearly collapsing into her waiting arms.

“You’re _stupid_ , both of you,” she chided, but her voice was shaking.

“He wants to see you,” Chiyoh told him later.

Will was reclining in one of his chairs. He had offered the bed, and she took it. He couldn’t see her in the darkness, not very well, and was grateful for it. His heart stuttered inside his chest at the words, the mere mention of him, not even by name. His stomach churned. He sunk his fingers into the cushions, squeezing until they cramped.

“You saw him?” he choked.

“He wrote to me. He wanted me to find you. Why are you hiding? Why haven’t you gone?”

“Was I supposed to?” he asked.

“He is waiting for an opportunity, as he always does. But he _is_ waiting, and waiting is lonesome, isn’t it? He needs you. Where have you been?”

“What about you? You go see him. Do you know he wouldn’t even look at me during the trial? He’ll be angry with me now, for staying away. His pride will be wounded if nothing else. Or maybe this is what he wanted. Moving on. I haven’t, but what if he wanted me to? What if he refuses to see me?”

“Will,” Chiyoh scorned. “He wanted to protect you and he succeeded. You are safe. I will continue to watch over you, for him, until he returns.”

“Why?”

“Because you are insufferable without him. You might do something stupid. You have always had less restraint. He might have appreciated it, but I do not.”

“Weren’t you betrothed?” he finally countered. “Married. Where’s your husband?”

“He didn’t suit me.”

Will mulled it over, mind wandering. He considered ignoring the thoughts that came, but curiosity gnawed at his guts until he decided to ask. “Do you remember the day Hannibal started speaking? You were gone the night before. Both of you. Did you…?”

“Are you realizing this now?”

“Well, no,” he said, feeling defensive. “I never got around to asking, when I was old enough.”

“Once. It will not happen again, ever,” she added, though unapologetic, to Will’s dismay.

“I’ve never had sex with anyone except him,” he confessed.

He heard the bed springs shifting. “Are you propositioning me?”

Will furrowed his brow, grimacing in the dark. “ _No._ ”

“Good. I have no interest in him eating me. In any case, you are like my little brother.”

“That didn’t stop Hannibal,” he said, surprising himself with a real laugh.

“He worships the ground you walk on,” Chiyoh agreed. “In every way he can.”

It echoed throughout the corridors of his mind, until he stood in Frederick Chilton’s office at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Chilton gushed over him, praising his bravery, offering words of encouragement and insisting that this would be therapeutic for him. It was the right decision, oh yes. Of course, he only agreed because of his personal curiosity, not for his former patient’s well-being. Chilton wanted to hold Will over Hannibal’s head, dangle him from the end of a string. It was written all over his face. “He’s still obsessed with you, you know,” Chilton said. “I hope this won’t be too uncomfortable for you, Mr. Graham. I wouldn’t want to hinder the progress of your recovery, but in my professional opinion, this will provide closure. I think this is good for you,” he lied through his teeth, eager like a dog with a bone. Will was too nervous to disagree. His chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. He started to sweat, cold beads dripping down his neck. Chilton misinterpreted his anxiety, fearing that Will might leave. Just to shut him up, Will assured him he was fine, pointedly ignoring the trembling in his limbs.

Jack Crawford would certainly hear about the visit. Others, too. Will would suffer through another wave of publicity, but there was time. He was handed off to an orderly who went down the list of rules as they walked.  

“Don’t touch or approach the glass, please. Pass him nothing, no pencils or pens, no staples or paperclips. If he attempts to pass you something, don’t accept it. These rules are made with your safety in mind. Do you understand?”

“I didn’t bring anything,” Will said.

The orderly cleared his throat expectantly.

Will dipped his head, choking back the urge to vomit. “Yes, I understand.”

“Then just a moment, Mr. Graham,” the orderly said.

The barred gate to the long hallway slid open, and he gestured for Will to pass.

“He’s been expecting you for some time, he tells me. You'll do fine. I’ll be watchin’.”

Will stared at him, wondering at his kindness, and took the first step.

He focused on breathing, his eyes fixed on the chair sitting at the end of the hall. His feet were numb, but there they were, moving beneath him, carrying him to his destination. He mostly ignored the delayed, confused jeering coming from his left, from the other cells. He couldn’t fault the _crazies_ for being _actually crazy._ He peeked into the next-to-last cell, stalling for time, and found it empty. Only one more to go. His heart crashed repeatedly into his chest, threatening to escape. He felt bile rising in his throat. He stopped in front of the last cell and breathed out. It was different from the rest, a glorified glass box. He lifted his eyes from the floor, catching on the subtle movements inside the cell, and finally landed on the figure stretched out on the bed, a thick book held open above the man’s head. The walls were unnaturally bare compared to the other cells. Will waited until the figure had risen, first marking their place in the book, then slowly approached.

Will looked at him.

Hannibal gazed back, his eyes the color of old blood, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Will.”

Will couldn’t speak.

“Please, sit.”

He lowered himself into the chair, fearing that his knees might bend on their own.

“You look good,” Will said after a minute.

He never would have imagined Hannibal had been shot, seeing him now. Pale-skinned but his body fit, broad-shouldered and standing tall with his hands behind his back. It strengthened his already impressive posture. His hair was cut short, neat. Hardly any new lines had been etched into his face. Will wished he could say the same. Hannibal was well-rested. The mark around his throat was lighter but still visible. It seemed more like a badge than a scar, the way it was proudly put on display. Satisfaction tugged at Will’s seams. 

“You have not been taking care of yourself,” Hannibal said, assessing him in turn.

“Best I can manage.”

“Do better, please.”

“I missed you,” Will said.

Hannibal’s eyes dragged over him again, lingering in places. Will didn’t expect the bitterness in his next words.

“I thought perhaps you had moved on, found yourself a nice, _simple_ girl and settled down. It would have been the easier route, but I suppose it wouldn’t have lasted. No, not with you. It does make me wonder. What could _possibly_ keep your attention? I smell fresh air, and pine, but not much else…aside from old food and stained clothes worn twice, thrice. And you drink now, excessively. Didn’t think to shower today? Should I be pleased, knowing that you can't function without me?”

Will let himself recover. “Did you just lose your temper with me?”

Hannibal hadn’t blinked once. He did then. “I’m sorry, Will,” he said at last, and he sounded sincere. He drew away. “I’ve missed your company. You evade me even in sleep. Hard not to take that personal.”

Will flinched. Shame crawled under his skin. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you earlier. It must have hurt.”

“Well, you’re here now…”

“Chiyoh knocked some sense into me.”

“Attagirl,” Hannibal said. He seemed absent.

_Where are you going? I'm right here._

“How are you?”

“I’m not quite myself here, but it won’t do to complain.”

There _was_ a change, however small, something created from isolation and...What else? His movements were stiff, mechanical. 

“What did they do to you?” Will asked, anger stirring low in his belly.

“Nothing drastic, not like anything I’m capable of. What you are. Did he tell you about the nurse?”

“No.”

“Strange.”

“Does he talk about it often?”

“Oh, Frederick just loves it. He thinks himself brave, keeping me here under his thumb, despite the advice of others in his circle. He likes me dangerous. I’m the favorite item in his vast collection, and so here I remain, where security continues to decline.”

“He wouldn’t even escort me here.”

“No…No, he’s very much afraid of me. He can look, but no touching.”

Will’s smile faltered. “I can’t touch you, either.”  

A flicker of pain crossed Hannibal’s face.

“Two minutes,” the orderly said from the end of the hall. His deep voice carried over the murmuring of the other patients.  

“Jack Crawford is going to make sure I don’t see you again,” Will said, forcing himself to speak over the lump in his throat. “I doubt Chilton will keep his mouth shut. Not for long.”

“He can’t resist.”

“I thought…But I don’t know how, without you…”

“Come here.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “He said—”

“Barney won’t mind, but you’ll want to be quick about it.”

He rose from his seat, approaching the glass as Hannibal did. He could almost reach out, pretend it wasn’t there. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the orderly shifting his stance, but the man was pretending not to notice them. Hannibal pressed closer and Will imagined breath against his face, remembered the last time they kissed. He tried to remember a time before, without the barriers and the shackles. Without the audience.

“An opportunity has presented itself to me,” Hannibal said, barely audible. “Have you read the papers?”

“No,” Will said.

Hannibal’s hooded eyes lifted, betraying his impatience. “Read, Will. You will be receiving a visit from a very ambitious young Agent Starling, soon. You’ll like her, I think. She needs our insight, and I’ve sent her your way.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“ _Don’t_ hurt her, cooperate. Quid pro quo. Help her help me help us. Understand?”

“What are you planning?”

Hannibal glanced down. Will followed his eyes, spotting the circular filters in the glass. Realization set in. He lifted his hand to grasp the one that waited for him. It wasn’t much room, but it was pure, unadulterated touch. He inhaled sharply, jolted by the familiar warmth, the firm hold. He held on just as tightly. The initial shock faded over time, fingers loosening, tracing over skin with care. Reacquainting themselves. Will heaved out a shaking breath, light-headed from the contact denied to him for so long. He dreamed of this. It was never so good.

“Time’s up,” Barney barked from down the hall, finally alarmed. 

“I would like to come home,” Hannibal said, his eyes crimson in the light, burning into the grey expanse in front of him. “You’ll know when. You know where. Will you wait for me?”

“Always,” Will said.

“Will,” Hannibal sighed. “My Will.”

“Mr. Graham, please _step away_ from the glass.”

“Best not upset Barney overmuch, he’s been very generous to me,” Hannibal suggested.

Reluctantly, Will backed off. He didn’t let go. “I would kill them all for you,” he said, voice low.

“Hush, we don’t want them thinking the worst of us.”

“Don’t we?”

Hannibal beamed at him, enchanted. “You must know how beautiful you are? Just radiant.”

“You’ve told me.” Will spoke softly. After all this time, he still blushed. He forced himself to keep eye contact. Every moment was precious, worth saving. His brother, his other half. His lover. He missed him. He missed his purring voice, his face, his stupid words, even his silence…“I’ll see you.”

He let go.

“Goodbye, Will.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Short” epilogue, my ass!

“We— listen, Graham, we can get you help…It doesn’t have to be like this, you don’t have to be like him.”

“I’m sorry it came to this, Clarice.” _You weren’t supposed to be here._

The look of utter grief on Starling’s face would probably haunt him for a while.

Will saw it as he wrapped his already bloody hand around her throat, his eyes drifting from her wide stare and to the hand that was instinctively reaching for her holstered gun. He used his free arm to restrain her flailing ones, crashing against the bookshelf behind him as she thrashed and kicked out, starting to panic. She dropped the gun in her haste. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in her ear, and she tried to bite him in a last ditch effort at survival. He barely avoided her teeth. He kicked the gun across the room and put her in a proper chokehold, waiting for the gradual change as she started to sink toward the floor. Her long legs folded beneath her and her arms dropped from clawing at his skin, dangling uselessly at her sides.

He checked her pulse and, satisfied with what he found, carried her upstairs. He tied her to the bed, murmuring more apologies as she woke, while pointedly ignoring the furious expression attempting to burrow itself under his skin. He shook it off, somewhat pleased when she stopped glaring and made a noise as he tightened the restraints. “If it makes any difference, I liked you,” Will told her, not surprised when her eyes glistened and she bit down on the cloth in her mouth in answer, breathing heavily through her nose. “ _We_ liked you. I won’t forget that, I promise. Shit, I really wanted to give you a proper goodbye, but I guess you’re too smart.”

When he pulled away her eyes went wide, and he quickly amended, “I’m not going to kill you, the world’s more interesting with you in it.” Those were Hannibal’s words, but maybe it would comfort her coming from Will. “We had never met someone like you before. You’re righteous, but not in the way of Jack Crawford, or the rest. You’re tenacious, sworn to uphold the law, but also kind. You’re as pure as good can get.” Throughout his assessment, she was perfectly still, willing herself not to tremble or resist, and he appreciated that. She wanted to survive. “I’m sorry,” he said, for the last time. He tugged on his coat, lifting the single duffel bag off the floor. It had been packed for weeks. He would be traveling light; everything he needed was already waiting for him.

He paused in the doorway. “I hope we see each other again someday.” 

Starling didn’t beg, not once, but even she couldn’t fight back the few tears that slid down her flushed cheeks. Will ducked his head and exited the room, more than a little ashamed to leave her like this, but he had faith she would be resourceful and find her way out of the situation within a few hours. Hopefully before the other body started to smell. And Jack Crawford knew exactly where she was. It wouldn’t take more than a day for the search to bring them to Will’s house, and he would be long gone. He glanced over his shoulder and considered waving goodbye, but stopped himself. He knew love when he saw it, and it was all over her face. She was in love with him. She had been for a while, and by extension she was also in love with Hannibal. It was impossible to love one without the other. Despite her foolishness for trusting him, it probably wouldn’t have affected her work. If given the chance she would have killed him, or held him hostage until backup arrived. He was sure of it.

“It’s not your fault. Nothing's wrong with you, don't let yourself believe there is.”

Will hoped she knew that. He stepped out of the house and drove to the airport, feeling giddy. He was going home.

Home was waiting for him at the seaside safe house, located on the western coast of Italy and overlooking the deep blue Tyrrhenian Sea. It should have terrified him more than it did, the uprooting of his life, but he could see himself living here. The house was ridiculous, mostly made of glass, set on the beach and isolated but not so far from civilization that Hannibal would complain about it. This could be their summer home. Will spent his first few days outside in the sun with the sand between his toes, before he relented and took to wandering about inside, breaking expensive antiques with his clumsy hands and camping out in the small library to avoid wreaking further havoc. He familiarized himself with the house, feeling the loneliness set in, and as soon as it arrived it was chased away: _Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter narrowly escapes from a holding facility in Memphis, Tennessee, 5 dead—Doctor Frederick Chilton reported missing, suspected kidnapping._

Chiyoh would bring him home safe, or escort him most of the way.  

Whatever Hannibal planned for Chilton, it was over quickly. Frederick’s lake house was raided hours after the escape by an immense SWAT team. They burst into the extravagant dining room armed and dangerous, which was completely empty save for the hunched over figure of Frederick Chilton with his skull cracked open and segments of his brain missing. It was still sizzling in the frying pan on the table. According to _Tattle Crime_ , it reportedly smelled freakishly delicious. Chilton was mostly conscious during the rescue and surprisingly coherent. There was no one else hiding in the house or around the premises, and Chilton was rushed to the closest hospital. Agent Clarice Starling had been the first on the scene, and claimed the house was deserted when she arrived. Will didn’t believe that, but there was no mention of Hannibal, or Chiyoh. He didn’t want to think she would betray her good nature so easily, letting them escape for Hannibal’s sake, or Will’s. She might have been outsmarted. Will supposed it was as good of a goodbye as she was going to get. He knew that Hannibal wanted to eat her, and he wouldn't risk killing her if he couldn't savor her.  

He wished he could be angry with Hannibal for risking his newfound freedom to indulge in his pettiness, but it was almost fitting. He understood the desire. _I wanted to see what was rolling around in that enormous head of yours, as you tried to dissect mine._ Chilton would live, with only a few complications. It was meant to scare him, knock him down a few pegs. It probably worked. Will had no doubt the good Doctor Frederick Chilton would resign from his position at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He would do it publicly to appease Hannibal, wherever he was, and ward off another future attack. He would learn his lesson and take his second chance, if he was wise. Will hoped he wasn’t stupid. He never wanted to see him again, even if it was to kill him. 

Will nested while he waited, rearranging the house to suit him, and to keep himself occupied because he couldn’t find a damn thing that needed repairing. “Fuck the aesthetic,” he said under his breath, pushing with all his might against a heavy futon in the front room, likely scraping the floors in the process. Something to fix. He sat in front of the window and watched the sun bleed into the horizon during the evening hours. He stared out at the sea, drinking the wine from the cellar, enjoying the breeze that filtered into the house and the smells on the wind, the reddish gold and pink lights that covered everything. His eyes drifted closed, and the next morning he went for a walk. That afternoon, he bought a boat with an envelope of cash he found hidden in the house. After all the spilled blood and the unbelievable stress, he wouldn’t mind a vacation.

He assumed Hannibal would arrive soon, sated from his recent spree, and there they would be. Hidden away beside the ocean, together at last, eating gourmet dinners each night because, oh, how terribly he missed Hannibal’s extraordinary cooking, and they would swim under the moonlight, make love under thin sheets at ungodly hours, whenever they pleased and the mood struck. He could imagine so much of what they would do. Will stacked pillows at night beside him to resemble another body, curling around it in the hopes that one morning he would wake and it would be Hannibal. He thought of the shared kiss in the courtroom, and the even more intimate touch of their hands in the BSHCI, the rushed goodbye as the orderly parted them. 

He let himself remember something precious and aching, the very first kiss. Will’s sudden urge to welcome Hannibal home with a gesture he didn’t quite understand, not at the time. He wondered how long Hannibal had wished to do the same. It must have been always. Hannibal had _always_ looked at Will like nothing else in the world mattered. _Just_ Will. When Robert Lecter came to retrieve him at the orphanage, to pluck him out of the nightmare of that place, Hannibal had kicked and screamed, desperate to remain in a living hell if it meant he could stay with Will. Will could never forget it, the way he said his name. Or the moment they shared after the butcher, or the night Hannibal finally, truly kissed him back, told Will he loved him _in that way,_ recited the words Will never actually expected to hear from him, not like that, not even in his wildest dreams.

He thought of the quiet child who fed the swans, with his bruised cheek and gentle hands. He thought of playing games in the French countryside, chasing and watching the blinking fireflies, pouring out secrets and stories to his mute but smiling brother. He thought of the pain of separation, and the sweet reunion that followed. He thought of dancing in Paris, practicing together at night in the cramped loft and stumbling drunk and breathless into each other. He thought of killing, of the burning fire in Hannibal’s dark eyes and the arousal that took over when he saw Will, his precious Will, covered in blood and panting from the hunt, carefree.

And there would be more memories to come.

Will woke in the night to kisses scattered over his jaw, covering his mouth, his face and his unruly, sleep-tousled curls. Hannibal’s familiar scent overwhelmed him, brought him from the brink of sleep and to his senses, his grey eyes fluttering open and his heart skipping several beats when he understood what was happening. It wasn’t a dream. _Well, just let yourself in,_ he wanted to scold, but the words died in his throat and he made a sound like a sob instead, reaching out to clutch whatever his fingers could find in the darkness. He snagged the edges of a soft sweater and lifted himself to meet Hannibal’s hungry, desperate kisses with equal impatience, uncaring that he tasted the tang of blood and suffered from the sharp points of Hannibal’s teeth nipping his bottom lip. Uncaring, when Hannibal sucked and licked apologetically against the minor wounds.

“God, you’re here,” Will breathed, touching his face, brushing his shaking thumbs over cheekbones and lips, whenever Hannibal stopped kissing him long enough to breathe. Will held him off and forced him to wait, rolling away to flick on the lamp so he could see him. Both men flinched from the sudden glare that stung their eyes, and Will laughed until Hannibal surged forward to kiss him again, gentle this time, without teeth or tongue. Hannibal was quivering, Will instinctively running his hands down Hannibal’s shoulders and in small circles over his back in the hopes of calming him down. He wondered if contact after being isolated for so long could be too much of a good thing. He would take it slow, if that was what Hannibal needed. He was feeling dizzy himself, his vision threatening to blur with each blink. Somehow, he held back. “You’re here,” Will repeated quietly. He felt weightless.

“I’m here.”

Hearing his voice, rasping and purring and the same as it always was, Will might as well have melted into a puddle on the spot. He missed that voice, that low tone. He wiggled underneath him, pressing his hands to Hannibal’s chest but not pushing. He turned his cheek so he could ask, without interruption, “Are you okay? You need to tell me, were you safe, how did you—”

“I need a moment. Please. Just let me look at you.” It sounded like a plea.

Will could hardly say no, avoiding the blush creeping into his face by focusing on Hannibal instead, taking him in while he was studied in turn. Will’s mouth twitched, nearly a smile, at the hooded maroon eyes that soaked him up like the sun, lips parted just slightly to exhale breath that was stolen at the mere sight of him. He freed a hand to place at the back of Hannibal’s head, carefully tugging him out of his reverie and down to Will’s mouth. Hannibal seemed almost afraid to touch him, requiring direction and Will’s explicit permission just to brush the curls from his eyes and behind his ear. “It’s okay,” Will said, waiting for him to dip his head into Will’s throat, the hot breath on his skin as familiar to him as his smell was to Hannibal. Will gripped his shoulders and kept him there, feeling the heavy weight on his chest, a blanket of security pressing him into the bed. He felt the mild scrape of teeth against his neck, at first questioning, then insistent, but never breaking the skin. Hannibal wanted to bite, but he wouldn’t let himself, even if Will didn’t mind.

The first buttons of his shirt popped open and Will immediately assisted in undressing himself and Hannibal, too. His stomach clenched tight while Hannibal trailed his mouth down Will’s chest, to his belly, and the hard edge of his hip. Will obeyed the quiet order to turn around, too eager to please to object, onto his stomach and pressing his cheek into the bed. He felt kisses in the small of his back, making him arch into the sheets instinctively, and then there was warmth over the curve of his backside. Fingers spread him open and a mouth covered him, licked into him, and Will threw his face into an overly stuffed pillow to silence his whimper. He lifted his head in confusion when it was yanked out of his grip and thrown to the floor, but he was quickly distracted. Hannibal wanted to hear him. Unable to hold it in on his own, Will let him, shifting back against him and leaking shamelessly onto the silk sheets. He had waited for this, _killed_ for it. “I missed this,” he confessed, feeling half broken and sounding very much the part.

A kiss burned into his shoulder as wet fingers slid inside him, drawing out a long sigh, successfully playing him. “I missed you, Will, more than you can imagine,” Hannibal said, his voice soft where his prying and toying wasn’t, not at all. “Look at you, so beautiful. You haven’t changed. Did you miss me?” Will’s enthusiastic yes was drowned out by a perfectly timed moan instead. Unshed tears stung his eyes. “You’ve waited for me, then?”

“Yes, so touch me,” Will demanded fiercely.

He listened to the roaring waves outside, crashing against the beach as he rolled onto his back, spreading to make room for Hannibal and inhaling sharply as Hannibal sank into him and held him close. They froze for a moment, recovering from the initial shock, before they started to move. Will struggled to breathe, clinging to him with his eyes shut tight until a forehead bumped lightly against his, requesting his attention. He was met with glowing, reassuring crimson eyes, as gentle as he had ever seen them. Will kissed him, wrapping his arms tight around Hannibal’s middle while hands felt him, caressing his sides and gliding over his thighs, familiarizing themselves and heating his skin wherever they touched. Will grabbed one of the wandering hands and interlaced their fingers, and brought it to rest over his thundering heart. “If you ever, ever leave me again, Hannibal,” Will said, but he couldn’t finish the threat. He swallowed it. 

He traced the scar over Hannibal’s throat and made a delighted noise at the shiver his touch elicited, smiling wide, but fell quiet when Hannibal began fucking him in earnest. With blood, sweat and tears. He encouraged the deadly teeth skimming his neck, crying out at the pain while his muscles screamed in unison, but the burn was welcome. It matched the ecstasy. He stared open-mouthed at the red spots in the sheets, the smears, and found he tasted blood on his own tongue as well as Hannibal’s, but he hardly cared. It was messy and it left them both heaving, swollen and bruised, but he wouldn’t have traded it for anything else. He listened to the sound of his own name, said so sweetly, with such urgency that he had no choice but to follow. 

_I love you, I love you._

He looked down the length of his body when it was over, their legs tangled together despite the overbearing heat, and out of the corner of his eye he could see a disturbingly large bruise on his neck with beads of blood still dripping. It certainly wouldn’t be disappearing soon. Too tired to complain, he rolled onto his side and buried his face in Hannibal’s throat, noting that it looked far worse. Hannibal’s breathing was even and his eyes were closed, but he wasn’t fully asleep. Dozing, maybe. Will found his way to Hannibal’s mouth and kissed him until his maroon eyes opened, focusing quickly in the low light. Will followed Hannibal into the bathroom where his wounds were cleaned and he was dropped into a porcelain tub, grumbling under his breath until Hannibal joined him despite the tight fit. He shied from soapy water thrown at him, unable to hide his tired smile, launching himself at Hannibal and kissing him into submission. Sighing, Will examined the love bites he had given him, inadvertently finding the long since healed bullet wound in his stomach. Will lingered over the scarred skin, fingers trembling, but Hannibal pulled him close and chased away the tears before they could start. He absently brushed his thumb over the matching scar on Will's shoulder. 

"You almost died," Will said wearily. 

"But I didn't."

"No, you didn't."  

They collapsed in a wet heap on a different bed in a different room, too exhausted after bathing to bother changing Will’s ruined sheets. It could wait until morning. Refreshing coolness enveloped Will’s aching limbs and soothed his hurts, but he was reluctant to sleep. He was bursting with excitement, even as his eyes kept falling closed. “I loved it, but let’s not do that every time, or I might die. You can be so mean,” he teased, rubbing gingerly at the bandage on his damp throat. He smiled at the delayed, hoarse chuckle his words earned him. It was worth the pain. It would always be worth it. “Where’s Chiyoh?” 

“I sent her home." 

“Why?”

“I think she was missing someone,” Hannibal said slowly, his eyes clouding with understanding. Will felt his chest swell.  

“I heard what you did to Chilton,” Will said, throwing a leg over him so they could be reassured even in sleep that they were still together. He dragged him closer.

“Did you like it?”

“Yes,” Will said, leaning to press his mouth against Hannibal’s. He had so much missing time to make up for.  

Hannibal hated letting Will out of his sight, though he wouldn’t admit it. Will spent the next several weeks looking over his shoulder, met repeatedly with the image of Hannibal trailing after him like a puppy. Whether it was done out of instinct or with purpose, he couldn’t always tell. It eased as Hannibal picked up his old interests, not just those belonging to his brother. Even so, Will sensed his watchful gaze often, and enjoyed it to some extent. He liked knowing he was being observed. He made it fun, only half-heartedly putting up a fight whenever his taunting and insolence ended with him being slung over Hannibal’s shoulder and carried to one of the bedrooms. 

It had been a long time since he had felt wanted and it showed, making itself known in his own, less obvious over-attachment. Hannibal showered him with affection and Will accepted it hungrily, and though the passion might have changed and revealed itself differently over time, it never waned. It strengthened, especially when Hannibal returned one evening with not only ingredients for a particularly spectacular dinner, but a dirty brindled stray that warmed up to Will almost instantly. “He followed me,” Hannibal insisted when he was questioned about it, but Will saw through his dishonesty. The puppy was already trusting of Hannibal when it arrived, so he had probably pitied the poor thing and stopped to feed it, might have even carried it most of the way home. It was a long walk from the nearest village. Will let it be, giving the wiggling mongrel a good bath. He named him Winston. He wondered if Hannibal had known about Uncle Robert's promise. 

Not too many days later, he ventured into one of the larger cities with Hannibal, to Florence. He kept expecting to see Jack Crawford or Clarice Starling behind every tilted hat and corner, but they didn’t make an appearance. He felt safe in the Uffizi Gallery, with his puppy settled inside his bulking jacket. It was buttoned up enough to hide him, save for a few telling orange hairs on the fabric and the hint of floppy ears. Other than the occasional grumbling, which could easily pass for someone's hungry stomach, Winston went relatively unnoticed. Will leaned into Hannibal, watching how his brother stared, transfixed with the Botticelli on the wall and ignorant to the rest of the paintings surrounding them on all sides. This one had his full attention.  

Will rubbed his knuckles against Winston’s little head and turned to _La Primavera_ , his eyes dragging across the canvas and taking in the exquisite detail. He kept drifting to the corner, to the fair woman being chased and seized by an unnaturally blue figure. “The nymph Chloris, kissed by the god of the west wind, Zephyrus,” Hannibal supplied, oddly taken with the same section of the painting. Will tilted his head at it, at the roses springing forth from the nymph’s open mouth. Winston gave a high-pitched yawn at the explanation, turning a few heads in the room. With lopsided smile, Will rested his cheek against Hannibal’s shoulder.

“What are you thinking?” he asked quietly.

“I feel the pull of inspiration,” Hannibal said, shifting to press his mouth to the wild mess of curls on Will’s head. “Don’t you?”

Will looked at it again. He did.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Thank you for reading!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNaGEYkjGXs) ♥♥


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